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Wes Mantooth · 01-12-2010, 11:59 PM

Its weird how we have such a romanticized view of the past isn't it? When I was young I couldn't wait to get out of my parents house and my backwards little town. I hated that place with a passion...I may have even vowed not to return when I left.

Anyway in the years after I left home my parents sold the old house and moved on as well. During that time I found myself thinking about "home" more and more often. Daydreaming turned into searching for photos on the web...until I discovered google maps and started street viewing the fuck out of my old home town (and of course the street view ended just before my old street...why not). I realized in that time that I really did care about the old home place and even missed it, that's teenage angst for you I guess.

When my father retired he was thrown a party in our old home town and asked me if would attend. I packed up and flew back to Maine, sort of excited...maybe a little bit nervous about seeing everything for the first time in years, I wondered if some of my old burn out friends still lived there. When I arrived I was shocked, nothing looked the same. It was so tiny, buildings had been torn down and half the population had moved away leaving street after street a vacant mess of overgrown yards and run down homes. When I finally got across town and saw the old house I was heartbroken. The people that bought it had run it into the ground, the paint was peeling so badly it was almost gone, the brick chimney had fallen over, the driveway was cracked and full of weeds. It dawned on me at that moment that this wasn't home anymore and I had no more right to it. I certainly couldn't go and punch the new owners in the face all I could do was drive away.

While driving away I realised that it didn't matter and its slow decay meant nothing to me. The house, the town, the beauty, wonder and awe that it held for me while growing up would always remain alive in my mind (as romanticized as it was). The aftermath was never mine to begin with nor apart of my memory of it. It was somebody else's world, a place where they would grow their own memories.

I don't know maybe the old saying is correct after all. You really can't go home again.

01-12-2010, 11:59 PM	#13 (permalink)
Wes Mantooth Junkie Location: Tennessee	Its weird how we have such a romanticized view of the past isn't it? When I was young I couldn't wait to get out of my parents house and my backwards little town. I hated that place with a passion...I may have even vowed not to return when I left. Anyway in the years after I left home my parents sold the old house and moved on as well. During that time I found myself thinking about "home" more and more often. Daydreaming turned into searching for photos on the web...until I discovered google maps and started street viewing the fuck out of my old home town (and of course the street view ended just before my old street...why not). I realized in that time that I really did care about the old home place and even missed it, that's teenage angst for you I guess. When my father retired he was thrown a party in our old home town and asked me if would attend. I packed up and flew back to Maine, sort of excited...maybe a little bit nervous about seeing everything for the first time in years, I wondered if some of my old burn out friends still lived there. When I arrived I was shocked, nothing looked the same. It was so tiny, buildings had been torn down and half the population had moved away leaving street after street a vacant mess of overgrown yards and run down homes. When I finally got across town and saw the old house I was heartbroken. The people that bought it had run it into the ground, the paint was peeling so badly it was almost gone, the brick chimney had fallen over, the driveway was cracked and full of weeds. It dawned on me at that moment that this wasn't home anymore and I had no more right to it. I certainly couldn't go and punch the new owners in the face all I could do was drive away. While driving away I realised that it didn't matter and its slow decay meant nothing to me. The house, the town, the beauty, wonder and awe that it held for me while growing up would always remain alive in my mind (as romanticized as it was). The aftermath was never mine to begin with nor apart of my memory of it. It was somebody else's world, a place where they would grow their own memories. I don't know maybe the old saying is correct after all. You really can't go home again. __________________ “My god I must have missed it...its hell down here!”