Homecomer

Catching up on the Years Between

It is early September when I write this. Finches flock with migratory chatter. The rising sun has inched farther into the southern sky. A branch of yellow basswood leaves stands out against the green. A school bus whizzes by delivering kids to their first day of school.

This changing season finds me in Northern Minnesota under oak trees that hold memories of my younger self climbing their branches. I’ve been here since the end of June living with and caring for my mother and assisting with a new family business.

Over the years I had come home as a visitor. A long weekend here, a few days there, an entire week for special occasions. After my father died I came back for two years. In the sorrow of those years there was also delight in sharing my childhood home with my own children, but I knew that it was short-term and my attention was kept close to the care of family. Reluctantly I moved back to the city, but not before telling the trees that I’d return. And indeed I have. 

I am a homecomer, and while my memories are rooted in the past I see how time has marched on with everything about the home place. Like me, the girth of the oaks has gotten larger. Pines planted in the front yard when we were kids now tower just as high as the oaks. In the valley to the south of the house, vegetation has slowly inched its way into the small lake turning it into a marshland of cattails and grasses with just enough open water for swans, who are new to the area. In the woods beside it, the creek where my brother and I played still cuts through on its way to the lake, but it doesn't flow all summer anymore and our woodland trail is long since overgrown. To the east Swanson’s field still spans across the road and I delight in watching the sun rise over it. The old barn on the other side is gone and deer graze along the edges. Folks say there has been an influx of bears around here. Years ago seeing a bear was a rarity, but now everyone has seen one. Everyone, that is, except me. I’ve gone the whole summer without seeing a bear. 

During the summer I’ve also begun to be reacquainted with old friends and neighbors, which has not been an easy task. Time has marched on with the people who have lived here all their lives. They greet me by name and I look into their eyes to see someone I should know. I struggle to see past their older bodies and faces that show tracks of sorrows and joys and hair that  is either white with age, dyed dark with denial of age, or gone missing somewhere in the past. I recognize their essence, know their gait, but can’t find their name. And so I turn to my sister and ask “Who is that?” and the name brings them back. I then see their parents' faces in them and my memory takes me back to our youth when we were wild and free. I wonder about all that has happened in their lives and how we have changed into older versions of ourselves according to the paths we’ve traveled.

Now that I am home to stay, I feel a sense of community and all that it entails in the people who are rooted here. They have lived life together through generations of weddings and baptisms, birthdays and funerals. They have sat together on hometown bleachers cheering on each other's children and grandchildren at sporting events and music concerts. Over the years, they have gathered for community benefits to help a neighbor in need, attended church dinners and rode proudly in small town parades. They’ve dug each other out after winter storms and cleaned up after summer winds. The people of this community have lived in the presence of earth other’s  life story.  Gossip and truth. Tears and laughter. Feuds and friendships. Everyone knows each other as they are now. They are the birds that have stayed through the seasons of life. I, on the other hand, have migrated, and feel as though I am  flying across the years to catch up.  

The finches are now swirling about. They are experts in the subject of homecoming. Soon our little friends will take flight on a long journey to a faraway place that will become their home for a while. Seasons will change, hatchlings will learn to fly and, like me, they will return to these familiar oaks. But I have shed my migratory feathers and will stay and settle into the seasons. I’ll spend the winter listening to stories of the hometown folk and perhaps tell a few of my own. I’ll take a seat on the bleachers during games and attend the school musical. I’ll fill my plate at church dinners and buy raffle tickets for local benefits. In time I’ll know everyone’s name again. In time the distance between then and now won’t be over foreign land. In everyone’s eyes I’ll always be a homecomer. But I’m okay with that. The journey has been worth it. I’ve landed now. I’m making good on my promise to the trees. Rooted in the forest. Rooted in the community.

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