Some of us find the world
in the places where we were born.
Some of us can find no place there at all
except in retrospect.
We write books about these lost places
as though we knew what they were all about;
as though just by living there, we understood that place.
Actually, by writing about them we visit them again
and feel as much a stranger as we did before.
That is how we can stand to write about them.
They become the exotic other lands we’ve traveled to.
Misfortune becomes the best part of the story;
and we, at last, are grateful for it.

That is is poignant!
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Thanks, Ibeth. The truth is that my first two books were about where I grew up so I do have a lot of nostalgia for my roots. But also needed to move on and see the world. I do enjoy going back for reunions.
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Judy, you articulate “it’s complicated” so well here. I’ve lived most of my life within a 10-mile radius, and all of my life within a 20-mile radius. Vacations have been a lot of fun but I’m always relieved to get back to my habitat.
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That’s how I feel now, Lisa. I’ve finally found my “home.”
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🙂
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Nostalgic with a bittersweet taste.
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I just drove by the house I grew up in (built almost 8o years ago) which I hadn’t seen in ages. Funny how the passage of time shrinks everything, ain’t it?
Thanks for sharing this touching work.
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The house I grew up in has fared remarkably well. Each owner has added touches to the point that I think it looks better than it did when we lived there!
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Ah the magic of our broken memories of people places, and things. None of them live up to what is embedded in our minds. And the older the memory gets the farther we become from the truth. We change a little and they change a lot~! Even pictures become sad to look at. Jealously sometimes becomes the reason at the other end, if you have escaped the place and then return telling all about your freedom of adventure~! Instead of being happy for your good luck to have escaped, they are unhappy for their still being stuck there and really don’t understand that this is taking place.
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Most of my memories of growing up are happy ones…but as I have said before, my wish was always to leave to see the rest of the world…the more strange and different, the better.
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As Judy knows, I am reluctantly re-living in the house I grew up in – the house I was relieved to leave behind at age 20. But circumstances dragged me back 35 years later, in 2006, as my parents transitioned to assisted living. Mom was born 98 years ago about 7 feet behind where I type this. She & Dad were joined in marriage about 4 feet beyond my computer screen ahead. Seeing that I’m sharing uncomfortably close quarters with the recalcitrant ghosts of my past, I figured I had to respond to Judy’s post. My house has never been home (and will NEVER be), but it has been a sort of touchstone. I suppose I should be grateful for that, but to whom?
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Beautifully said, Forgottenman. I hope you expand on this topic on your own blog!
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So profound Judy.
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So well done, Judy
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A place age just like we do…. and few of us manage to age with grace.
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The house pictured is not really the house I grew up in. It seems to have aged beautifully. It looks better than it did when I lived there 66 years ago!
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Deep work. Deep title. It’s not that you can’t go back, it’s that it was never actually there to begin with.
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This is deeply poignant! ❤️
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A lovely feeling of nostalgia.
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