Home (?)

Home. We all have that one place that we call home. Whether it was where we grew up, where our best memories were made, or whether it's somewhere we live as adults. We all have that place. This city, in a small valley adjacent to the ocean was one the place I called home. I grew up here, yes, but left when I was nineteen. I turned my back on what was once a small community. Now. Now it was a city, not the place I left behind so long ago. Don't ask me why I decided to return here, I wouldn't even understand. Yet, here I am standing alone, overlooking a bustling city below me.

Little Valley, it was called. It is still "Little Valley" but it is nowhere near little. Over there, to the North, were once nothing but orchards. Apples, pears, peaches, and cherries for as far as the eye could see. Mr. Wagoner kept bees in an adjacent field. Now, instead of green trees and sweet-smelling fruit, I see houses and industry have overtaken the valley and some of the surrounding hills. The once clear river that we swam in during the summer is now dark with filth, mud, and debris that feeds straight into the ocean. I shiver at the thought of even approaching it. The bridge, old, wooden, and covered was once a place of picnics, cook-outs, dances, and gatherings. I remember one summer having a church service on that bridge because the church was so hot. Now, it's simply a historical monument. A concrete monstrosity was built next to it. I'd say it is about Art Deco era, something around the twenties or thirties with tall pillars and elaborately decorated sidewalls. I must cross this bridge to get into town. I don't want to, but I do it anyway.

The river feeds into the ocean just west of me. I don't know if I even want to go there now with all the pollution clogging the riverbed. And yet my feet take me to the cliff overlooking the crashing waves and rocks below. The waves have eaten away at some of the rocks, and I did have to fight through a few trees and bushes to get here, but otherwise, my spot has been left untouched. I am now standing in the one place where I felt that I could escape reality. Where I could be alone, and not driven mad by the rumors and talk that once escaped the mouths of the good, God-fearing, people of Little Valley. They are why I left, and now the reason I'm back. It has been two hundred years since I stepped foot on these shores, much less the ground of this valley. Two hundred years of 'progress' has taken this tiny coastal town and turned it dark. Factories and black smoke tower over dirty cottages and houses. What were once fine homes and gardens have been remodeled and are now dirty apartments, filled with whores and drugs. I want to cry, but it's no use. The tears won't come.

As if by memory, my feet take me to the old street where I lived. It was cobblestone then. I loved to hear the clop, clop, clop, of the horse's hooves on the street as they pranced up to the homes and into the long drives. While I know I no longer will see the long driveways, I am impressed by the neighborhood. Not much here has changed. Apparently, this area was deemed "historic" and worthy of saving. Tree branches protrude into the street. White fences surrounded by flowers and bushes decorate every inch of the road. Well-manicured lawns and freshly painted homes are done in "the old style" alongside center gardens and trees in the street greet me. If they only knew how gaudy their nostalgic décor appeared now. The center of the street has been planted with smaller trees and decorative gardens. A change, but for the better?

Homes here are still majestic. I guess you could call them historic. Large houses that have aged very little in 200 years, carriage houses that have become garages or cottages, still have the charm they once did. In the air, the smell of fruit trees fills me with joy. Apparently, some folks think it is still important to grow their own food. I stroll passed a slew of new houses and even some of the old. I recognize what was once my best friend's house, Betty was her name. The house was white when she lived there, and it's now a pale blue. The windows are still original. Even the trees are the same, I can just make out where we carved our initials in the bark. As I reach the end of the long street I am greeted by a darker house. This one, dark blue, a bit dirty and worn down with black finials and frosted windows look more like a storybook's witch house. It's gingerbread trim, also black screams, "Haunted." I stand now at the very end of the street where the home circle around into a cul-de-sac. Turning back down the street I can no longer see the bustling city that I left behind, but I can hear the factories and can smell the smoke in the air. Turning back to the house it is not as manicured though not in disrepair. Mismanaged, one could say, in comparison to those surrounding it. Flowers bloom in the gardens but there are weeds here in there. The old apple tree by the gate needs pruning. The old metal gate barely hangs on its hinges and squeaks in defiance as I open it. I am surprised this place hasn't been torn down, burned, or sold. It's not much of a sight to see anymore. Once, however, long ago, this house was beautiful with a garden stretching as far as the eye could see. Fields of trees and grapes grew in the fields surrounding it. Those are gone now, build up as lots and sold in bits and pieces. What remains is only a remnant of what once the most sought-after property in Little Valley. Someone has been taking a little care of it as I approach the door. The windows, though dirty are not in disrepair. The door hangs level on its hinges. The porch squeaks but isn't rotten.

I ask myself again why I returned here, why I made myself come back. I am returning to a place where I was shunned, where I was no longer welcome and yet here I stand at the portal to my childhood. I know what is behind that elaborate wooden door. I will find dust, antiques, and memories. Memories no one would want to hold, but I feel that it is time to face them. I have been running for two-hundred years – I'm done running. I am ready to fight. I am starting with home. I am starting with the house my grandfather built with his own two hands. The house that my mother and myself were born in. The house, that at one time held wonderful memories and beautiful parties. As I step inside the threshold, I realize that yes, I am home.