An Unexpected Journey

Thomas Wolfe was wrong. You can go home again.

I know because I did it yesterday. My magic carpet was a small green vinyl covered book. Each page was filled with handwriting, all in pencil. It was a Christmas gift, a diary, the year I was 12.

My new advisor, aka professional de-clutterer, erstwhile young friend, Nancy, has strongly suggested I empty one closet or drawer every day. I love Nancy, and to be totally honest, am just a bit intimidated. I sometimes think she is channeling Mom. Her expression, not her voice, when she views some of my treasures, for example, a truly incredible collection of paper shopping bags, speaks volumes.

So rather than ruin our relationship, I am obeying her dictates. Slowly, but methodically every day I discard something. And then there are the moments when everything stops because I have unearthed a treasure.

I don't quite know if you realistically could describe the diary as a treasure, rather more of a Pandora's Box. I took the afternoon off from my de-cluttering responsibilities, and sat down with a cup of very black coffee and went back in time.

If you ever decide to make this journey, prepare yourself. It is not without pain. Perhaps more than a cup of coffee might be beneficial, and definitely, a new box of Kleenex.

I had forgotten so much. Did I want to or was I one of the Irish described in TRINITY who never looked back?

Some of the hardest parts were the penciled messages relating to my parents. Each page describes in minute detail how much nurturing I had. It was the year Dad had lost his job, but found another one in New Jersey. He worked the night shift returning to 58th Street well after midnight 6 days a week. Still religiously for the 52 weeks recorded in the small book, every Sunday he took my sister and me either to the Roxy Theatre or Central Park or in the warmer months to an outdoor pool in Queens.

It was also the year my Mom went back to work. In the diary I describe it as a wonderful event totally unaware that it was within the same time frame Dad was unemployed. Obviously, there were financial problems. Yet my sister and I were shielded from any monetary concerns. We had weekly dental appointments, still went "downtown" for new clothing and were oblivious to anything other than our own insulated childish existence.

There are narrative descriptions describing casually the love that flowed beyond the family. The incidents are recorded as statements of fact, never as a tribute, merely a reality. A railroad tenement flat is quite small. Ours must have had elastic walls because of the constant flow of extended family, cousins, uncles and neighbors who visited daily. I had forgotten that. I don't know when I ceased to remember the unlimited stream of kindness that flowed along the street where I grew up and flourished on the fourth floor of 450.

Each page mentions ever so nonchalantly some illness, problem or contact with a needy friend, neighbor or relative. Each paragraph describes quite simply how even if there wasn't a solution, their needs weren't ignored or neglected. As young as I was when recording that memorable year I should have been more aware of the bountiful generosity of spirit that emanated from our small home and touched so many other lives.

But the harshest part was a feeling of loss as I read the penciled words describing my parents. For a very brief span of my day yesterday I was once again with a young Mother, not the elderly woman I remember, and the strong red haired Father who relinquished his one day off a week to share it with two young daughters. I tend to recall him as the fragile man whose battle with illness called him away in his middle years. The penciled pages brought back a young couple, still in love, and robust enough physically and emotionally to share their strength and compassion with everyone who touched their world. As I read, I wondered; how could I have forgotten?

Do I recommend a trip back in time for others. Only if you are very resilient emotionally because it is a road strewn with thorns. You cannot whisper to those who shared it with you yesterday how grateful you are today for their sacrifices. You cannot reach out for one last moment to touch their hands or hug them close. They can no longer hear your voice or see your tears or feel your regret. It was a fragile bubble of time that has gone forever, and maybe Thomas Wolfe should have said, you should not go home again.