(May 21, 2007)
When I was about eight years old, I tried to “run away from home”. The years cloud my memory of exactly what prompted that decision. Most likely I felt neglected, or didn’t get “my way” on some major issue, like not getting to bat “clean-up” in our regular Saturday afternoon baseball game with the Roberts brothers. But I distinctly recall telling my sister Linda I was leaving. “Where are you going?” she asked. “I don’t know, but I’ll find a place where I am more appreciated,” I replied. Not sure what sort of career I would have if I joined the traveling circus, I thought, “If I could make it to St. Louis, the Cardinals would surely sign me up as their clean-up batter.”
“What are you taking with you?” Linda asked. I hadn’t given that much thought. I went to my bedroom shared with my three brothers, and returned with (are you ready for this?) a bag containing (1) a mason jar filled with water, (2) a couple changes of underwear (I know…too much information), and (3) my Bible. (Psychologists could have a field day analyzing those selections.) With these provisions, Topey, the Righteous Wonder Dog and I set off from our house, the Old Clampett Place at the foot of Graball Hill.
We walked down the dirt road to Highway 49, set off north as far as the Country Club (less than a mile). “Boy, are they going to miss me!” I said several times to Topey. He gave me that “Yeah, sure!” look, as if he knew this was going to be a short trip. The further I walked, the hotter it got in the blazing Mississippi summer sun. It didn’t take long before I realized I would miss my family much more than they would ever miss me. So I swallowed my childish pride, and retraced my steps back home, just in time to pick up the sweet smell of Mother’s fried catfish.
Linda, who had been watching me the whole time from our front porch, greeted me, “You’re back already?” She knew all along the best thing was to let me get this stupid stubborn streak out of my system. I couldn’t look her in the eye, stared at the ground, and said, “Yeah, I decided to come back home.” “That’s good,” she said. Nothing else needed to be said as we all sat down for a fried catfish dinner. The temperamental prodigal son had returned home.
It is now exactly a half century later, and I have never lost the wanderlust, living most of my adult life in places like Kentucky, Wisconsin, Georgia and now California. I even made it to Busch Stadium in St. Louis, but as a spectator, not the Cardinals’ clean-up batter. But I also have never lost my love for my family and home in Yazoo City. There is not a day that I don’t revisit those good old days on Graball Hill in my mind. I can see the Orioles and the kudzu vines, smell the magnolias, hear the evening crickets, feel the gentle summer rain on my face, and taste the fried catfish. Not often enough, I come to my senses, and decide its time to go back to my Southern roots again.
This Wednesday, if all goes as planned, I will retrace my steps again back to Graball Hill. Linda will still be watching for my return, Mother will be frying the catfish, and I will sit down at the table one more time with my family, who always accept me for who I am: the impulsive one who keeps running away from (and back to) my Yazoo City home.
From the Quote Garden
“Home is a place you grow up wanting to leave, and grow old wanting to get back to.”
~ John Ed Pearce
No comments:
Post a Comment