You can’t go home again

At least that’s what the story says.

I spent the weekend in NJ for a second memorial service for my uncle, and to reconnect with friends and family. My friend Cheryl drove me by the two homes I grew up in (Thank you Cher!). I lived with my grandparents from ages 4 to 11. I was last at their home in 2010 when my grandmother moved to assisted living. It was time to clear the house out. I didn’t get a great photo; the house was not much but it’s gone now. Razed, now in a preservation trust of some kind, and from the look of the land and trees you’d never know that my grandparents lived on that land, in that house, for 60+  years. Gone.

From ages 11 to 16, I lived in what I affectionately call the Addams Family Mansion. It had great bones and hidden passageways, but we didn’t take good care of it. Who ever bought it recently has transformed it. It’s majestic now.

And it’s easier to show off pictures of houses instead of writing about memorial services, nursing homes and medical powers of attorney. It’s hard going home again.