Homecoming

We were at the airport’s security gate when I turned to my parents to give them a hug. I already knew what was coming next, over the years it’s become a ritual or sorts. My mother’s eyes well up with tears and her voice cracks as we say “good bye.”

It sounds very sweet, but for me the moment is filled with guilt and riddled with remorse. Well, that is after all, the price you pay for picking up your life and moving, for staying away for 13 years, for abandoning your folks in their old age, for having grandkids born in another state.

The shame played out again at the airport, but this time…this embrace…those tears…something was different. Something, that just didn’t seem right.

Truth is, as much as I enjoyed myself, this entire trip was a little bit off. It just seemed awkward from start to finish. Even after nine days I’m not sure I can put my finger on it.

It started off with such high expectations. I wanted to show my son where his old man came from. When we drove around town I’d point out my school, the pizza place where I got my first job and the little league baseball field where I once pitched a no hitter. I’d take him sledding down my favorite hill and at night he’d sleep in my old bedroom.

Yeah, at four years old the significance would be lost on him but maybe…just maybe…some of my childhood could become part of his childhood.

It didn’t work out that way.  The school has a new wing and undergone so much renovation that it’s unrecognizable. The pizza place changed names and moved across town. The baseball field has been bulldozed, the sledding hill is now an upscale subdivision and my bedroom is a family storage unit.

Getting through security and making our way across the terminal I once again started to play the game that had consumed me all week long. Searching the faces of the passing travelers I was hoping to see someone I’d recognize. It was a pointless.  I had yet to win on this entire vacation and certainly the odds of bumping into someone here- at a major metropolitan airport – seemed highly unlikely.

And yet I still couldn’t get over the fact that it never happened it my remote suburban hometown. Not too long ago it was impossible to go anywhere in Shelby Township without seeing someone? Where did they all go? Who are these people that replaced them? These days instead of friends, step into a store and all you’ll find is strangers looking back at you.

None of this is new, or in anyway unique to me- I know that. Anyone who’s moved away has experienced the same disappointment.  We’ve all been told that you can’t go home again. But no one bothered to tell us something else. If you stay away long enough there comes a time when your hometown is no longer your home but rather it gets reduced to just the place where you’re from. I think that‘s what finally happened to me on this trip.

The plane was now taxing on the runaway and once again we were going to leave Detroit behind. While we were in the air I thought about all the states I’ve lived in during the last 13 years. None of them ever felt like home. There really just lines on my resume.

 Even now, even though I have no plans to leave my town of Wilmington, North Carolina, a place that I have lived in for three years,  it still doesn’t feel like it belongs to me.  And so this kid from Michigan feels very much like an orphan.

 The image of my mother still haunted me during the second flight on a much smaller plane. Why did her tears seem so different this time around? Is it possible that for all these years she never really was trying to send me on a guilt trip? Maybe she wasn’t crying because I was leaving her or the family, but perhaps she knew that I was saying goodbye to something else; a sense of community- something that once given up it can become virtually impossible to regain.

It was late as we were making our approach into Wilmington. My son and I had spent nearly 8 hours traveling.  Looking outside the dark window it was impossible to see the most inviting and attractive parts of this city. But there in the distance was something that made me smile: the blinking light on top of my television station’s broadcast tower. I wondered what stories I’d be telling the folks at work tomorrow about my vacation.

With my bearings now in tack I knew that the awkward shaped structure in the foreground had to be the Memorial Bridge and up the Cape Fear River I could make out the buildings in the downtown district.

Preparing for the landing we crossed what I guess was MLK Highway and I saw all the lights from the cars below. What are the odds that I knew some of the drivers? It wasn’t a practical thought- just as unlikely as finding a familiar face in a metropolitan airport. All the same there are a number of people- a growing number of people down there- who I care about.

As the wheels touched the ground, I came to terms with the fact that my journey was really coming full circle. In the beginning I had set out to see my hometown. It took 9 days…or maybe it took 13 years… but I had finally reached my destination

  

A View From the Hill Top

The Hill Top Bar deserves a spot on the list of historical landmarks. It is one of the oldest, continuously operated businesses in Shelby Township, Michigan. You’ve never heard of it, but then again few people in Shelby Township have heard of it either. This extremely narrow hole-in-the-wall, built some time in the 1930′s, goes unnoticed because it is flanked on either side by strip malls with huge road signs. There is so much clutter and development that unless you knew what you were looking for… you’d never know what you were missing.

This location was not part of the itinerary for my week long vacation back home. And yet on my first night I found myself saddling up to the bar with my father.

The Hill Top Bar is just that- it is a bar. It is not a tavern, a saloon, a pub or any other alternative name given to an establishment that serves alcohol. It is most certainly not a club. It survives, decade after decade, off the business of just a handful of regulars- blue collar workers who come here after their shift at some automotive plant

Robyn, the only bartender on duty, hasn’t worked here very long. She got the job just a few months ago after being laid off from the nearby Ford plant. The career change took her from making 20 plus dollars an hour, to minimum wage plus tips. ” A lot of my friends are waiting for something better to come along, but I got a little baby girl at home,” she said pointing at a picture on the cash register, “I had to do something to pay the bills.”

My new friend had no problem talking about the troubled economy. The topic has become a favorite for far too many these days. People like telling you how much money they’ve lost on the stock market, or how long their retirement has been delayed because of a dwindling 401k or how lucky they are just to have a job.

Everywhere you go people are hurting, but you come here to Michigan and the pain just seems so much worse. They’ve been in this recession longer than the rest of the nation and the recovery will likely move slower here than anywhere else.

“So how many people here have lost their job?” I asked Robyn the question knowing that she knew all the regulars by name and knew exactly what each was going through.

She looked around the smoke filled room until her eyes rested on one man sitting on the opposite end of the bar. “You see that guy over there?” She gesturing toward a man who was wearing a Red Wing’s hat, sipping beer out of a bottle and talking to no one else. He clearly wanted to be left alone. He was having a miserable time “He is the only one who hasn’t been laid off.”

Just in sake of numbers alone the news was shocking. Eleven people were in the bar and all but one them were out of work.

You’d never know it by looking at them. They were having way too much fun; shooting darts, playing barroom shuffleboard and dancing to the jukebox.

Almost instantly I started to resent these people. How could they be unemployed and hanging out a bar? What a waste of money. It just seemed totally irresponsible. No wonder they lost their jobs.

My mood though changed when a pizza deliveryman walked through the door. One of the unemployed workers had ordered the food- the Hill Top has no kitchen.  I watched her pay the man, telling him to keep the change. She then walked around the bar going to each individual offering them a slice. On the surface she was sharing just food, but in reality it was so much more than that.

When someone loses their job they lose more than just a paycheck, in reality they lose a part of their personality- a part of their identity. Who we are is too often defined by what we do. When you are suddenly doing nothing it is as if you have become nothing.

That is exactly what these people in the Hill Top are going through. And so they come to this bar, come here after spending the day worried about the bills and the mortgage, to get away and remove themselves from all the uncertainty.  They come here because in this place they are not alone. During the day, as they desperately search for jobs, it may seem that what happened to them was somehow their own fault and yet here at night they’re reminded that the blame belongs on circumstances beyond their own control- beyond anyone’s control. By sharing a beer, and a few slices of pizza, the regulars at the Hill Top are really engaging in community therapy.

As I watched the crowd interact, as I heard them laugh and at least for a moment forget about their situation, my feelings against them suddenly disappeared. Technically they were all strangers, and yet I knew them all so well. Their faces were those of so many childhood friends who went on to work for one of the big three. To land such a job meant a promising life and so much security. Somewhere, at some other neighborhood bar, I wondered how many of my old friends were drinking away their sorrow.

My eyes roamed around the room and finally went back to the stranger at the end of the bar. I suddenly knew why he looked so miserable- why clearly was not enjoying himself. I think he was sitting there wondering if he’d be next.

Button Pushers

Once upon a time, maybe five or six years ago, my mother-in -law loved me. Well, okay, “love” is a bit of an overstatement. She did though, undeniably, like me. The two of us hit it off instantly. Our relationship was based on laughter. She understood my sense of humor and I genuinely appreciate anyone who thinks I’m funny.

 Looking back the real reason for her affection is finally clear. It was based solely on comparison.  She absolutely, completely, with total vengeance, hated the boyfriend before me. In short, she liked me because I wasn’t him.  With that as a foundation our friendship had little hope. Eventually the memory of the guy I replaced would grow stale and she’d wind up hating me every bit as much as him.

Just a few weeks ago thoughts, of my mother-in-law came bounding back into my head. For the first time in several years the two of us were going to have to see each other. A lot has changed since our last encounter…well, at least one big thing has changed; her daughter and I have broken up.

This was not going to be a social visit. It’d only last a few minutes. I’d walk in and pick up my son (her grandson) and then turn around and leave. The exchange was really no big deal. So why was I so nervous?

 I’ve never experienced a panic attack, but I now know the symptoms; shortness of breath, lump in the throat, a shaking feeling on the inside.  Getting into the car my mind became cluttered with memories of every confrontation, every rude comment, every one of her nasty tricks.  I once needed to tolerate this behavior to keep the peace, but why now? Why did I have to drive two hours to be treated this way?

You know what I am talking about.

No matter how many accomplishments you have, how successful you become, no matter what you do there will always be complicated and trying personalities. You simply cannot get rid of them. The world has no shortage of button pushers. For me it is my mother-in-law. For you it is somebody else.

 Clearly the blame belongs on them.  Hey, it’s not on us. How could it be; we get along with virtually everyone else. So, if there’s a problem it must be the fault of the jerks, the idiots, the malcontents and the old hags.

Or maybe it’s not.  

Halfway on my journey I started to think about all the reasons, some legitimate, this woman had to dislike me. For starters, she wasn’t technically my mother-in-law. Her daughter and I lived with each other for years but never got married. That would get on the nerves of any mother.

Plus there were words that caused pain. When my ex wanted to buy a home directly next door to her mother’s, the idea was immediately shot down; “Are you crazy? This isn’t Everybody Loves Raymond.”  The comment got back to the mother-in-law who didn’t think it was funny… but to be honest it wasn’t a joke.

Most of all I think she probably felt let down. Her little girl deserved a knight in shining armor. How disappointing it must have been to discover that the make shift son-in-law was far short of that mark.

Getting off the exit, my mind prepared for the tricks she had up her sleeve. She’d probably open with a complaint about me being early or late (five minutes in either direction and I hear it.) She’d then move on with some snide comment about my hairline. She’d make some remark-she wouldn’t be able to help herself- about how happy her daughter is with this new boyfriend.  And then there’d be the grand finale. It’s her favorite weapon, and boy does it get under my skin.  In saying goodbye to my son she’d drop the title of “daddy.” “What are you and Doug going to do together?” “You and Doug have fun now!”

 In the last few miles my hands became clammy; the steering wheel was getting moist.  No matter how quickly I got in and out, this was still going to be painful. And then, out of no where, all the fear disappeared. Without any explanation it was suddenly replaced with this great sense of calm.

 I know it sounds strange. How can a person go, almost immediately, from a total frantic state to just knowing deep down inside that it’s okay? Honestly it started with this presence. It wasn’t a voice; it was just something in my gut that billowed upwards. It made its way to my brain where the same phrase kept repeating itself over and over: “She may push the buttons, but they’re your buttons. You own them.”

I was in the driveway now and shocked to discover that there was a part of me that almost wanted to hug her. Okay that too may be a bit of an overstatement. All the same I knew I could be charming, polite, maybe even funny…it would be nice to laugh together again.

Yes, she tried many of the things I predicted and more but none of them worked. She will always be a complicated personality in my life, but even the most challenging individuals have value.

As I got into the car to start our journey back home, I thought about the contrast between the way I feel about my son and my emotions towards the former mother-in-law. It’s easy to love someone who’s loveable. Anyone can do that. But how many of us can love someone who’s something less?

 They may push our buttons but they are our buttons.