No place like home

Lord, I'm one, Lord, I'm two,
Lord, I'm three, Lord, I'm four,
Lord, I'm five hundred miles a way from home.

Away from home, away from home,
away from home, away from home,
Lord, I'm five hundred miles away from home.

Not a shirt on my back,
not a penny to my name.
Lord, I can't go back home this-a way

        -- Hedy West, 1963

In his book of the same title, Thomas Wolfe famously wrote, “You can’t go home again.”

It’s a sad conclusion; particularly considering the fact that most of his writing was autobiographical and celebrated his boyhood home in North Carolina.

Of course, Wolfe died before reaching age 38, even before his book was printed; so he had limited opportunities for attempting to go home and no opportunity to engage in discussions and reflections on a theory he might have changed had he lived longer.

For me, “home” can mean only one place: the house on Middlesex Drive in San Diego where I lived between 1957 and 1967 – plus, on a temporary basis, for a few intervals thereafter. Forty years later I believe I can clearly remember all kinds of details and, in my mind’s eye, can bring the building and grounds into crystal clarity. This is not true for any other home I’ve occupied – though it is true, interestingly, for a few workplaces.

I’d have to say that everywhere I’ve lived since leaving Middlesex has felt like – and has proved to be – a temporary arrangement. In a sense, it’s fair to say that I’ve really had only one “home” in all my life.

Well, up until last week, I would have agreed with Wolfe. Simple economics make it unlikely that I could afford to move back to San Diego. Since my mother sold the Middlesex property ten or so years ago, I’ve pretty much given up any thoughts of becoming a homeowner back in San Diego.

Until a few days ago, my plan was to return to central California and then make a leisurely move back to the Los Angeles area where I would either rent or purchase a condo. I have a couple of fallback plans, including extending my stay in the Valley; but the housing market down south seems amenable to buyers and I planned to strike while the iron was hot (and then hope for an upturn to justify my speculative purchase).

Suddenly, the situation changed. After leaving our family home behind, my mother joined another family and moved into THEIR home. This house has a strong “home” aura – having been the happy abode of nice folks. Better yet, it’s in a neighborhood I’ve lusted after since I was a teen – the beach!

The house is actually a bit more than a mile from the shore, but what a shore! Pacific Beach is probably second only to my old haunt, Mission Beach as an inviting venue. Living minutes away from that broad swath of sand – and back in the general environs where I came of age – is an inviting prospect.

And the house will be sold … to someone … soon.

The current buyer’s market means the price will be depressed a bit – hopefully temporarily. And my folks desire to get moved with the least possible amount of hassle relating to getting the place ready to show and moving everything out before closing makes me an inviting potential buyer from whom they might take a somewhat lower offer in return for making their transition fairly painless and for allowing them to store possessions at the house indefinitely.

And so, when I drive into San Diego County tomorrow, it may be the first stage of going home again. There are plenty of potential slips between the Pacific and my bare feet in the sand; but the prospect is rather exciting – and that’s adding a new dimension to my trip and my outlook.

To be honest, the odds are against this working out. San Diego real estate prices tend to be unreal. But, it’s been fun to consider – if just for a few days – that Thomas Wolfe might just be wrong and I can go home again…

A chair is still a chair
Even when there’s no one sitting there
But a chair is not a house
And a house is not a home
When there's no one there to hold you tight,
And no one there you can kiss good night.

A room is still a room
Even when there's nothing there but gloom;
But a room is not a house,
And a house is not a home
When the two of us are far apart
And one of us has a broken heart.

        -- Burt Bacharach, 1964