I believe it was Thomas Wolfe who once wrote, “You can never go
home again.” This is especially true for me. About five weeks ago,
while I was away at school, my parents moved from the home we lived
in for over 15 years. I am still trying to adjust.

I grew up in the lazy town of Bexley, Ohio, a suburb of
Columbus. For me, it was an idyllic place to grow up: All of my
schooling took place in the same huge building two blocks away,
making it easy for me to walk to school and go home for lunch each
day. There was not one, but two local ice cream shops, a quaint
library, three little coffee shops and a small independent movie
theater all along the same Main Street strip. (I’m not kidding when
I say it was all on Main Street; how American is that!) In the
winter, the plethora of oaks and maples that line the streets fill
with snow, creating a majestic, white wonderland. It was a place I
had hoped to come home to forever; my parents had other plans.

My parents moved to some empty-nester community on the east side
of Columbus, in that gray area between outer suburbia and inner
backwoods. It’s a nice house, with everything my parents wanted,
but it’s just not the same. I still have a room, but the posters I
had up for years in my old room are gone, along with my old bed
that I could sleep in for days. My new bed has that stiffness that
only goes away with years of naps and early bedtimes–years that I
don’t have.

Worst of all, I have to learn the settings for the new shower.
Granted, I never quite caught on to the setting for my old shower,
but that was one of the eccentricities I had come to love about my
old house; besides, I was just getting close breaking its
secrets.

With this new house, I will now have to adapt to changes in my
family holiday traditions. The Christmas tree will now be in some
alien spot in the new house that has yet to even be determined. I
can’t even begin to imagine where the advent stocking will be, as
this house has no kitchen nook to hang them in. Frankly, the
holiday season will be at a loss.

There are some perks, though. Included in the house is an
outdoor service that will shovel the driveway and mow the minuscule
lawn that my parents now have. No longer will I have to get bundled
up in boots, wool hats, scarves and gloves to start up the family’s
old snow-blower from medieval times. At the same time, hot
chocolate and marshmallows never tasted quite as good as it did
after a few hours of shoveling (The snow-blower would never end up
working, leaving me to do it manually).

It was inevitable that my parents would move out of Bexley,
letting another young family enjoy the town my family did. Still,
though, it’s a notion I still have to get used to. I doubt I will
ever look at this house as anything other than merely a hotel that
happens to have all my stuff in it; no more, no less. From now on,
I go back to my parent’s house, not my home.