My latest convoluted thought journey began with Peppermint Patty. Those who know the Peanuts characters will know Patty.
Sports Illustrated suggested a few months ago Peppermint Patty was probably the first gender-busting female athlete to crack the glass ceiling in the sports world. She was the best athlete in the Charles Schulz neighbourhood, including Snoopy, who was pretty good at hockey.
Patty, in deep disgust, was quitting Charlie Brown’s baseball team, realizing the futility of her efforts. She had hit five home runs, yet Charlie’s team still lost 37-9.
With ball glove attached to jeans, Patty declared “I’m going back to where I came from”
Charlie Brown replied as he watched her walk away, “that must be a nice thing to be able to do.”
Can you go back to where you came from? Ever?
There is that old adage, that you can never go home again.
When I returned to the town I grew up in after a 20-year absence, it felt warm and I was somewhat comfortable. But our home was now someone else’s home and I couldn’t invade.
I have had three real homes in Estevan, two of them had been on George Street. I like George Street, nothing special about it, but it’s the old ‘hood’ to me. But my current abode and ‘hood’ is where I feel most comfortable now. The Mercury office doesn’t count, I don’t quite live here, but sometimes it’s a close call.
When I lived in Trinidad, I remembered a final visit to Maracas Beach and feeling quite morose, knowing I probably wouldn’t see that wonderful 10-mile stretch of white sand ever again. I took a mental picture of where our gang usually parked and where we spent time and wasted our talents on Saturdays or Sundays. I don’t know if I would even want to go back there now.
Circumstances and time change things.
Then there is the religious angle of home.
A few weeks ago, Tim Pippus, in his regular missive in Lifestyles, (and I claim some literary license here, because I know I’m not paraphrasing it entirely correctly), said that we are foolish to send out messages to God to grant us favours or fine outcomes.
He is there to lead us, to show us the way home. But it was our journey to make.
I can’t take a stand when it comes to religious discussions, arguments or negotiations. I have mixed thought processes and emotions when it comes to that great query. I like to say that when it comes to faith-based decisions, I’m going the same route as I had to take on the question of retaining the Canadian Wheat Board or dismantling it. There were great arguments on both sides, so I took no side because I didn’t have to. Or, I didn’t think I had to. So going home for the religious set, is special on another plane.
Just like home for the wanderer, is something else again. I think that old cowboy tune Home on the Range, sums up that feeling the best.
Another old saying suggests that “home is where the heart is.” Also true.
I once heard the statement that a home was nothing more than a box with a lid where we kept all our stuff.
Strictly speaking, that analysis bore merit, but it was so terribly wrong.
For many, it’s more. Homes get ransacked, flooded or, in places like Aleppo, bombed, and homes become a major personal issue. It’s more than a box with our stuff. It’s more than the money we invested in it. We invest ourselves, our emotions, our beings into those rooms. So we have to be able to go home again, where we know we fit in, just like Peppermint Patty.
