The Effort to Get Home

Rick Bragg wrote, in the November issue of Southern Living, that “it’s worth anything you have to do to get home.” Then he goes on to explain that all of his mother’s generation was gone, much like mine. I can’t remember the last time I sat with cousins at a holiday table or heard my aunt or uncle wish me a Merry Christmas. Well, because there aren’t any bodies or voices.. A few distant relatives remain, but time and geography has created an impenetrable separation.

The Athens home was for sell, but decades earlier, the home was literally home. Mama told us this is where she grew up, where she gathered eggs in the backyard, where she and her siblings played in the backyard. We couldn’t get inside but mama remembered in details the days of growing up. A memory and gift she gave her grandsons.

Now that I am home on mountainside in Hayesville, NC., I don’t think I’ve ever felt home’s pull as strong. I truly am in love with the physical home, and truth be told, the mental clarity it has gifted me has made all the difference in my life.

Distance from family that remain is palpable, and it continues to grow as the years go by. Some by geography, some by default, some by death, some by simply growing older, some by difference of values and opinions. It’s always something, and I am learning to accept this unfolding life for everything happens for a reason. I cling to this.

We should always make an effort to return home, whether the physical destination or within the hollows of the mind. I find myself calling on mama more than ever, and although we butted heads so often, she has always remained a strong force in my life. She never waivered in her beliefs, and she really didn’t care whether others felt the same. She held the final prize insight. Always.

Kids say the world has changed, and it has for sure. But do we have to change? The young say we should and adapt to the world today, but I feel if I do, I throw everything away that home taught me. It’s a conundrum. Is there a compromise? And then, if so, who gives in? Who makes the change? Are apologies for my opinions valid? Or are they simply stupid?

In my 50 years with my mother, I don’t remember an apology.

Which brings me to the political and social climate of 2025. So often, I want to speak, but I don’t. Someone reminded me lately that if you have nothing good to say, keep quiet.

I return home in some fashion every day. I might pick up mama’s handkerchief that decorates a box behind my desk, or wind daddy’s Big Ben clock that ticks away on my desk. And as spring approaches, damn it, if I don’t find myself in the garden section at Home Depot or gravitating toward the outdoor Ingles plant area. That’s mama, through and through.

I’m afraid if I don’t make a conscious effort, the connection to my family will be lost and I won’t remember the life I lived growing up. I won’t remember my mother’s guttural ‘aw’ she bellowed when something I said made no sense. Or my daddy’s smile when I walked in from the outside. Or the Christian values they instilled in me, ensuring me that living right on earth will reward me with a heavenly home.

Some things aren’t worth the compromise.