Coming Home

Ponderings on My Journey

Where are you from?

As a frequent traveler for my professional career, I heard this question often. I was aware of my hesitant response.  

Where am I from? I’m from Nebraska – it’s where I grew up – but I live in Kansas (commence jokes about Dorothy and horrified questions about tornadoes). Even after living in Kansas for thirty years and raising my son here, I just couldn’t think of it as my home.

Recently I found myself driving north on roads I have traveled hundreds of times over the last 35 years. The autumn farmland scenery was familiar, even soothing. The rain pouring down felt like ancestorial tears keeping me company as I pondered my journey. I was going home. But this time it was different.

I hadn’t been back to Nebraska in more than a year – not since my dad’s funeral in June 2023. With his memory fading, he’d moved to an independent living community at the end of 2019. In those in-between years, going home was more of an obligation to make sure he was well and safe, but mostly a chance to spend time with close friends who chose Wayne as their home.

While I feel completely welcomed and loved by my friends, my family home is now a granite marker next to the Ginns and Melenas in the “Catholic section” of Greenwood Cemetery. When I got to town, my first stop down memory lane was there. I left a small bouquet of fall flowers I’d brought for the occasion. Pausing in the cold rain, I glanced around and noted all the familiar names. Memories flashed quickly. From there, I spent some time alone, revisiting the places I once called home.

718 Walnut Drive: The first home I remember – I almost drove past it along the curved road. The priest lived across the street and we were neighbors with the nuns. The sidewalk between us led to the Catholic elementary school and the church parking lot. I used to hide in the backyard bushes and watch the “big kids” run around the building at recess. I learned to ride my aqua blue bike with its flowered banana seat in the parking lot. My favorite climbing tree is gone and the space behind the single car garage seemed too small for the clothes line where I spent many hours imagining stories as I hung the t-shirts and towels. I remembered the smell of fresh Christmas trees and untangling the lights, one of the few activities with just me and dad. This house, once very large in my mind, is so very small now.

802 East 14^th Street: Across from the hospital, this house was designed just for us with six bedrooms to accommodate teenage angst. It was quite modern when we built it in the early 1980s. The angled cedar siding and large windows were risky choices at the time. With the courtyard privacy fence now gone, I strained to see my bedroom door through the long two-story front window. I had my own bright yellow room and gingham bedspread. A butterfly print hung on the wall, a gift from a family friend. This was the home of teenage hormones, at least eight graduation parties, family dinners, and an artificial Christmas tree. Surrounded by overgrown trees, the house now seems less grand.

800 Pine Heights Road: I never lived at this address, but I distinctly remember the first time I came here during grad school. No one was there when I arrived, so I quietly explored each room and realized that simply the essence of my family made it feel like home. It became the place of my son’s childhood Christmas mornings and summer visits on the screened-in porch. There were more graduation and surprise birthday parties. It was the last family home I slept in. Alone one weekend, doing the final cleaning and sorting to prepare it for the next family to make memories. Driving by now, it’s much the same – except the white door is now pink.

I was in Wayne for just twenty-four hours. A time for hugs and remembering as we said goodbye to another parent. I have no specific plans to return.

The quickest route back to Kansas, suggested by my GPS, took me a different way, saving three minutes. It was still comforting with open fields and a sunny day highlighting the autumnal glow. But something has shifted in the last two years. I realized that I could no longer go home. Now, it is only the place I grew up and where my parents are buried.

Photo by Andrew J. Kettle

In the last two years I’ve been on my own journey, of sorts. A journey of shedding past places, rules, and beliefs that were given to me but weren’t really mine. I’ve been discovering – and accepting – the parts I need to keep: the tender-hearted child imagining stories while hanging out the laundry, the girl who chose colors that reflected her inner brightness, the woman who learned to say goodbye and still hold love in her heart. Though the journey took more than five decades, I finally found my home. Home is within me.

As I drove south, I messaged my sweetheart – I’m coming home.

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With loving wishes,

Amy