You Can’t Go Home

You can't go home again espouses Thomas Wolf, finishing his book I understand.

Earlier I believed I could go home again to pick and choose the pieces I would like to assemble for an Idyllic life.

No matter how hard you try, you will not be going home again to what seemed loving, fulfilling, and meaningful.

Life is a hurricane spinning around you; what strikes you is out of your control.

Maybe Spectre said it more eloquently: You're a kite dancing in a hurricane, Mr. Bond.

Your past is pieces of mirrored glass spinning round in the hurricane. You get glimpses and reflections from the mirrored glass as the hurricane moves you in its direction while slinging unforeseen objects and events at you.

I see Magnolia elementary school reflections in these pieces of spinning mirrored glass, teachers, events, and friends as I look up from the lower playfield now Ella Bailey Park. It's 10 pm, the full moon begins to cast its first rays over the top of Queen Anne just a sliver of reddish moonlight. I see a rebirth, giant holes sawn with diamond-tipped blades through the reddish burgundy brick walls in the backside of Magnolia Elementary. I see new steel beams framing an addition to Magnolia Elementary.

Now I see reflections of myself standing in the lower playfield where I am now; I am 8 years old, playing an organized baseball game. Standing in right field, I am throwing my baseball glove into the air out of boredom. A coach stops the game and screams at me, chastising me for my unprofessional conduct, then yells at my dad to talk with me. I have never liked baseball ever since. The strangest part, the baseball glove, stayed in the hurricane for 62 years before landing at my feet. I received a call from someone in Atlanta who tracked me down using the internet. He had purchased a baseball glove at a Goodwill in Atlanta. Later he found written by my mother in indelible ink, my name, address, and phone number. When I replied with the correct information, he said I have your baseball glove. It came flying home to me by 2-day air. You can't control hurricanes; they control you.

Suddenly a loud siren or alarm-like sound, coming from inside the school—the moon is moving closer to the space needle. I look up again through the steel beam skeleton; I see the light on through one of the gigantic holes sawn through the brick into the side of the school. Someone is still inside working. Why would someone be working with loud power tools at 10:30 at night? Why did Mrs Pain, whose homeroom was next to the boy's bathroom, always come charging into the center of the boy's bathroom every time she heard a loud noise coming from inside. I will be kind and not speculate on her motives. I never used one of the doorless stalls because of her.

Mirrored glass also reflects sound from the past. I remember our Cub Scout troop would meet at night in the school lunchroom. We would line up outside in the hall; then on a cloth-covered teal and white 78-speed phonograph, the needle would be lowered to play Edward Elgar's march of pomp and circumstance. We marched in then up to the front, where the flag would be placed in its holder on the stage. I have always loved the March of Pomp and Circumstance and feel inspired every time I hear it. Such a contrast to a screaming power tool at 10:30 at night.

The full reddish moon is almost directly above the Space Needle. Another reflection from the spinning mirrored glass. A fully inflated reddish kickball perfectly connects with the toe in the upper playfield. It rises and effortlessly clears the fence between the upper and lower playfields. It almost strikes me as I rapidly click the shutter before the moon passes over the top dead center of the space needle.

 As I look to make sure the kickball was the only other reflection, I see the old rusted chain-link fence between the fields. Another reflection of reddish rusted iron filings collected at the base of the fence with a magnet just ten feet from the tether balls. Not the past time of many but a few of us enjoyed our prospecting. The moon now almost the same color as my rusty iron filings. 

Tonight's photos of the moon are not as exciting as the photos at Bob Chrisman's parents' house. It was the 5th grade, and we decided to skip lunch and go to Bob Chrisman's place while his parents were at work. Bob's dad had a collection of Playboy magazines; this was the first time some of us had ever seen a partly naked woman. Close to this time, I learned on the playground how babies were made. It was hard to believe and took a while for me to believe it was true. Nivea and Magnolia cloistered, Simon and Garfunkel later expressed it as a time of innocence.

During the day, driving down 28th, about 20 pickup trucks on both sides of the street in front of Magnolia elementary all the workers on its reconstruction, in the middle, the stairs to the main entry, I see my kindergarten class sitting on the stairs having our graduation picture taken.

Looking up a window missing on the second floor, Mrs. Galbreth's math classroom. I see Mrs. Galbreth holding a boy upside down. Mrs. Galbreth was a large well-proportioned lady; she was wearing a colorful green and white floral print dress; her hair pulled back into a bun. She was an excellent math teacher, explaining how to invert and multiply fractions; she wanted us to remember what inverted met—seeing her now through the missing window but even more vividly sitting in her classroom. Thirty wide-eyed students sitting at their old inkwell patinaed and carved desks, their cast iron frames screwed into the worn maple floors. Mrs. Galbreth looking prim and proper, holding an inverted boy upside down, explained this is what inverted means.

I remember looking out the windows, thinking of building rockets and how slow time seemed to go. In the first grade a year was 1/5th of my life.

Tom, you are right I can't go home again, but I keep seeing reflections from the broken pieces of mirrored glass swirling around me. How long this hurricane will last, and where it takes me is always a surprise. I wanted to build rockets; now I am building sentences.

Where I have been is part of me it tells me when to duck and when to reach out and grab hold of something.

More succinctly: You are a kite dancing in a hurricane Mr. Bond.