Going Home Again

Willie, Waylon, Vince, Seal, Bob Seger and Kenny G always bring me home from Kansas, after the semi-annual visit to family. A radio station featuring my preferred artists is not always readily available on the road, so I assure myself of pleasing company by packing my favorite CDs. On this particular trip I attended my 55th high school reunion, the first visit with my classmates since graduation (see what's left of the Class of '52, above. That's me in the mostly blue tropical print jacket.). There were only 24 to begin with, and not everyone was able to attend this reunion. It was tremendous fun getting reacquainted, and hearing what everyone had been up to for 55 years. School and graduation were in tiny nearby Madison, but we gathered at the American Legion Hall in Emporia, Kansas, the town where I spent the 17 years of married life.

Traveling from my sister’s hometown near Wichita, I arrived in Emporia early enough to drive around a bit and see if I could locate the places I had lived. I found one of our houses, that my husband and his father had built, occupied and still looking presentable. The other places were either long gone, or the neighborhood had changed so much I didn’t recognize them. Brought back lots of memories, both good and not so good.

In this town I had been a card assembler at Hallmark Cards, church secretary, executive secretary to the Art Dept. head at Kansas State Teacher’s College, then typesetter and page-makeup artist at the same College.

In this town I swam and sunned at the city pool, rode my bike to work to the tune of 8 miles a day, bowled my way to numerous awards, crowned by placing 28th nationally in the Women’s Singles in Las Vegas, made lifelong friends, and generally learned to be a self-sufficient, independent woman, excelling at just about everything to which I set my mind.

In this town I came face to face with racial prejudice from people in my church, and it nearly destroyed me. In this town I struggled with my country going to war (1960s) that was not called a war. In this town I became disillusioned with my marriage, coming to the realization that it was not going to survive the disparity between my husband and myself.

My childhood with parents and older sisters gave me values and belief in myself that sustained me well, in those good times and the bad. The formative, growing, and learning years in this town were the bridge between that childhood and my mature life ahead. When I headed for Texas, sans husband, I literally never looked back.

They say you can’t go home again. Well, you can visit, certainly. You can reminisce. You can remember.

And that’s a very good thing.