On Coming Home...

Batman has the Batcave; Superman, his Fortress of Solitude. For me, I have found that the cure for my various stresses over the years to be an extended visit home. Of course, I get curious looks from some, who question the appeal of slogging down I-95 through holiday traffic to a place where the newest subdivision is named after a Prohibition-era moonshine runner. You see, my parents retired to rural North Carolina over ten years ago, so my family’s semi-annual pilgrimage is not to the place of my childhood. And life in Clayton, NC moves a tic slower than it does in Philadelphia, PA. Much slower.

But that’s the selling point for me. When I’m “home”, it’s as if time freezes, if just for a few days. Every beautiful processed food item I enjoyed as a child and currently verboten in the Goldwater household is on prominent display – the toughest decision I make during a typical day revolves around what I’ll have for breakfast – Cap’n Crunch, Cocoa Puffs or Apple Jacks. I don’t worry about deadlines, sales quotas or mortgages, they’ll still be there when I get back. And with me through all of this is Mrs. Goldwater, who indulges me on my little time travel adventures; who herself has managed to develop a good relationship with her in-laws, including my sister and sister-in-law, who live in the area as well.

Adding to the allure for me is the fact that my son and daughter are around the same ages as my sister’s two boys, and the four of them get along famously. It is a joy watching them develop a foundation upon which I hope will become a life-long friendship.

Yet visits these days are becoming all too bittersweet. With every trip, I see my parents age before my eyes. But although my mom and dad may have lost a step or two with time, their hospitality and generosity have never ebbed. Their pride in their children and love of their grandchildren provides them an almost boundless source of energy.

But it is through this lens that I also see they have more days behind them then ahead, forcing me to grudgingly acknowledge and accept my own aging (as if the gray hair at 20 wasn’t a giveaway), as well as that of my brothers and sister. My siblings and I are no longer children living under the same roof under the benevolent dictatorship of Mom and Dad - each of us has become a responsible adult, each with our own families, values, opinions and set of adult-like problems.

We arrived home last Saturday evening after spending eight hours in a minivan. No sooner was my eight year-old son in the front door did he burst into tears. This wasn’t the inconsolable outburst of an impudent child who didn’t get what he wanted, but rather the heartfelt sadness of a young man who is beginning to understand that life isn’t permanent, that nothing lasts forever and even life’s most mundane moments are ones to be savored.

I wish I could tell him it gets easier.