You Can Go Home Again

CHAPTER NINETEEN

RETURN OF THE NATIVE

The car came to the very edge of town, and stopped in front of a pitiful old yellow house peeping silently from behind huge maple trees. Its columns were no longer upright and no longer white, and the porch ceiling was settling around them.

"I'll go in for a while," said Jim, as though suddenly waking from a long sleep. "I think I can go back to 1918. It was the day after Christmas, George, when you came home. You came in on the bus with your blue duffel bag; you were tall and straight, and you filled your uniform with muscles hardened by the war."

I out-ran the others, and met you at the blacksmith shop. Pop was not far behind -- about Miss Mary Magee's garden. Dick was next, and, with him perched on your shoulders, we hurried in each other's arms until we met Mom, who had made it to Dotie's gate. Do you remember how she cried and thanked the Good Lord that her boy was home, safe and sound?

Through joyful kin and neighbors we somehow managed it the rest of the way home, up the steps, through the yard, and on to the front porch. Munner opened the door; you swept her small body off the floor as our other mother greeted you with tears of joy and thanksgiving.

We went through the hall to the big bedroom, where the fireplace blazed happily at your return. Your stocking was hanging from the mantel piece; intact except for the barber pole which Uncle Dave had smashed and partly consumed the day before. Your coconut lay just underneath on the floor, as it had for years on end.

Surely this must have been a part of the Heaven in which we so fervently believe. You, Dick, were a lad of seven; you still had your baby blue eyes, and an abundance of beautiful flaxen hair. You were my special love. I was twelve, and life, an almost untasted sweet, stretched so far ahead -- I thought forever and ever. Mom and Pop were a robust early middle age; their hair was thick and brown, and they were there to lean on, our strength and refuge in time of trouble. Munner was past eighty, but her body was active and her mind was clear. And you, George, were home with all your legs and arms, and were ready to pick up where you had left off some two years before. How wonderful that we were re-united in such a heavenly setting!

When we had settled down a bit and had caught our breaths, Mom asked you about Herschel Johnson, who had been with you all the way. Perry, you had come to call him, just as you were called George in the Army, instead of Ray.

"Poor Perry," You replied. "Flu and pneumonia got him in Liverpool, and he didn't make it home with me. I must go see his mother in the morning."

"Fellows, do you remember that glorious day?" Jim asked. "It is so clear it might have happened yesterday. I think if I go in that old house, and if I try very hard, I can find them all together in December, fifty-six years ago, just as I have described them. Don't you go in with me, for you will find the house empty, and will be disappointed."

"I'll go in for a while, and, if I do find them, I'll be home; I'll get Mildred and never leave again. If I don't find them, I'll rejoin you before you get to Sparta. Be careful, and have a good trip. Remember, George, don't drive too fast; your reflexes are not what they used to be. And don't make the mistake I made."

I have loved every minute I have had with you, and have enjoyed my long monologue with Dick while you slept. I think he heard me, and I wish he had replied.

On your way back, stop here for a while, and, if I am still here, I'll try somehow, to give you a quick look behind the veil.

"Why don't you two and Mildred buy the old place as we once planned, and maybe..maybe...we...will....always....have....a....Home."

- 0 - 0 - 0 -

The car came to the very edge of town, and stopped by a new red brick house, glaring haughtily from behind huge maple trees. Dick applied the brakes hard, and both stared in amazement.

"Well, I'll be damned!" he exclaimed in disbelief. "They built it facing the alley!"

"So they did," George replied. "Obviously, it's brand new. When were we last here?"

"About ten years ago, the year Mom passed away."

"Do you remember how bad the place looked then?" George continued. "I don't know how long it had been vacant. Bushes were all over the place, and we couldn't get to the barn lot or pasture. The barn was gone.

"Yes, I remember," Dick replied, sadly. "We were able to get back to the well and the smokehouse. For the thousandth time, I ran my hand down the hole in the smokehouse floor. My fist had grown a lot in forty years, and it almost stuck that time. I don't remember, but they told me Pop was smoking meat and a live coal popped out and burned clear through the floor."

"Right in front of the smokehouse was the spot where Jim and I used to churn for Mom. I don't remember the old-fashioned up-and-down churn, but I do remember the Daisy we bought from Sears and Roebuck. It had a turning gear attached to a four bladed

paddle, and fifty turns each would bring the butter. We monitored the other's turns, and if the first stopped at forty-eight, it could cause a fight."

"A big June apple tree provided shade and also great apples in season, but it was gone. Neither could I find the rollie-hole strip by the side of the smokehouse."

"The old Arkansas Black was still standing beside the well."

"Son," George broke in, "Pop planted that tree when I was a baby."

"Yes, so I've heard them say. Jim pulled a shriveled old apple from it, and carried it back to Dallas. It, of course, was not fit to eat; but, my, how good they used to be when Mom wrapped them in newspapers and filled a barrel for winter."

"I wish we hadn't gone into the house," George said. "It was so empty, and nothing looked the same except the fireplace in the big bedroom."

"And do you remember?" Dick picked up the story, "There was running water in the kitchen, and a real bathroom where the side porch had been."

"Only one thing seemed natural. Jim and I opened the closet door in the back bedroom, and peeped up through the trap into the attic. It was as dark and foreboding as I ever remember it. The things we used to think lived up there may have been for real, after all."

"Do you want to go in and see who lives here?"

"No, I don't!" Dick replied. "It was bad enough when our friends, the Dough Hoopers, brought it and moved into our home. But now, a new house and strangers - I just couldn't take it?"

"I'm glad Jim can't see it," George said. "It would break his heart to know the old home is gone."

"Yes, it would," Dick agreed. I hope he can't see it! How I wish we had bought the old place when we talked about it. We didn't, though, and now everything is gone except the trees. I have seen enough. If you are ready, let's head for Knoxville."

"I never was so ready," George replied. "Let's go!"

The car moved on down a well-remembered hill, over the rocks embedded in the road for many years; past tall green corn stalks which seemed to wave at them; across a wooden bridge much younger than the road; and up another well-remembered hill, until a right turn at the top carried them to Highway 70.

They turned east, and passed beautiful new houses on both sides of the highway; houses built on the ghosts of old broom sage fields and bob-whites and small boys who hunted them. And the small birds keep calling, and the small hunters reply; but the voices are so whispered and forlorn they may easily be mistaken for a breeze crying softly in the poplars on the hill.

THE END

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