You Can/Can't[?] Go Home Again

The door to my childhood bedroom, last seen in 1981

Last week I did something I’ve always been petrified to do.

I went back to Glen Rock, New Jersey, the town where I grew up, the town that I couldn’t wait to leave, the town I left the day less than 24 hours after graduating from high school.

Since 1981, I’ve only ventured there a handful of times. The town and the two houses where I’d grown up had loomed large in my memory, but I learned to blot it out early on by turning my focus outward and onto other people so that I wouldn’t have to look at who and what had shaped me.

But about eight years ago, once I started digging around in my own goop, I knew I’d have to take on the town — and the houses — head-on eventually.

Instinctively, I knew that this meant actually going inside both houses. Last fall I tracked down the owners of both houses and sent a message asking to visit. I realize that some people just show up at their childhood homes, knock on the door, and ask to come inside, but I didn’t feel comfortable going that route so I did the preliminary legwork.

Plus, it gave me some time to get used to the idea.

I lucked out in both cases: both owners had always been curious about what their house had looked like before they lived there. One house was sold a few years ago, and from the photos in the real estate listing I didn’t recognize much.

So off I went.

We moved from the first house when I was just six, and honestly, all that I remember about the house came from photos. I played detective anyway, and pointed out to the owner where the living room was and where my father’s dental office was, but honestly it didn’t strike any memories or emotions.

The next day, I headed for the house where I had spent 12 years … even today, I’ve never lived in a house for longer than six years.

The suburban streets felt so narrow, the houses so close together they were almost touching. I parked and went inside with the owner following my lead as I pointed out what was the same: the fireplace, the garage [where my mother had held her umpteen garage sales] and the door chimes, though now rendered redundant by the Nest doorbell.

The house had been expanded in the back by the previous owners, which ate up a good chunk of the backyard. The one thing I had most looked forward to seeing — the trees supporting the treehouse that served as my escape — were gone.

We went into the basement, which had been completely redone from the ubiquitous pine-panelled rec rooms of the Seventies. I pointed out where a built-in cubby held a TV where my father — who had been banished from the first floor — and I watched Lotsa Luck, ate Doritos, and drank Pepsi.

Upstairs I found a trace of my mother in the linen closet. A label for a smoke detector was pasted onto the door, and scrawled at the bottom in my mother’s handwriting was 6-15-82. Unclear if it was when the batteries had been installed or when she needed to change them.

But there it was. When I saw that I thought, Good for her, she staked her claim in this house that she always loved and never wanted to leave.

I saved my room for last. The door was closed — one thing hadn’t changed, ha — and once I opened the door I felt…

…Nothing.

The room felt like it had been neutered. It was one of two in the house that retained its original footprint and roofline. When I was in my teens, after my father died I painted a rainbow on the far wall and painted the sky black.

It also felt bigger than it did when I spent most of my waking hours there.

Today, it serves as a guest room.

Here’s the window where I crouched behind filmy gauze curtains more than fifty years ago to eavesdrop on the mother next door who read books to her three daughters at bedtime, because I didn’t know there was such a thing.

All through the house, I didn’t feel anything. It may be hard to fathom but I approached the visit with no expectations, albeit everything was colored by a fair amount of dread. As it turned out, I think I dreaded being in the actual town itself more than in the houses where I had spent my formative years.

I’m not sure what I expected, I tend to go into new projects totally open with a let’s see what I can find attitude. And I was so laser focused on how the houses had changed that I didn’t feel much when I was actually inside.

In the end, the biggest surprise was the people.

The family living there looked happy. A mother, father — who talked to each other! — and two kids playing together. And everyone ate together at the same table.

When I was a kid, the only time that happened was at Christmas and Thanksgiving, when the tension was so fraught that you could cut it with the Sunbeam electric carving knife that only came out of the pine cupboard twice a year.

This house wasn’t doomed, the angst and turmoil from our family that had been stored in all of our bones hadn’t been stored in the walls. Somehow, I had imagined that this was indeed the case and that it would emanate out to poison any and all past and current inhabitants.

But this wasn’t so. Perhaps that was the biggest surprise.

Now that I’m home I’ve become aware of a weird little void, and that’s okay. I’m just going to let sit for a bit.

I’m still digesting the visit, which has caused new questions and issues to float up and address as I proceed with my memoir. So, all good.

This Week’s Takeaway: What has been looming in your consciousness for only forever? It may be contacting an estranged relative or researching a particularly unsavory part of your family history or reading a book you’ve been avoiding. I am here to tell you that if I could step inside both of my haunted childhood homes and not want to cower in a corner for the rest of my life, it’s probably not as bad as you think it is. If you’re ready to take even one tiny step, think of what you can do to inch towards it. A few tiny steps may be enough to convince you that naaaah, I’m not going to go there, and that’s okay. Or it may help you to develop the courage necessary to move forward.