Nostalgia is a funny thing.
I went up to my childhood home this weekend, to harvest a treeload of plums and see a few old friends. My folks were out of town, so I had the country stillness to myself. It was hot and dry; I spent most of my time outside. The tree was loaded.
After, I made my way to town to meet an old friend for swimming. I can’t get enough water lately. Rivers, lakes, pools, ocean, bathtubs in a pinch. There’s probably more nostalgia in that little fact than I give it credit for; I grew up on the river, near a lake, and though I often took it for granted they were always available when I wanted them. Now I live a few miles from the ocean, but I never spend any time at or in the water. Strange how that works.
Instead of heading straight back to town at the end of the afternoon, we followed a whim and stopped by the summer camp we used to go to. Years had passed since either of us had been there. The grounds hadn’t changed, but most of the people had. Everything was completely the same and totally different. We relived old stories as we drove back.
Later we rounded up a guitar and sang the songs we listened to over and over back in the day. The next day I left my old home for my now home. Instead of being let down the way I was returning from Minneapolis, I felt satisfied and happy to be return to my own little slice of the world. Even against the backdrop of all that sweet history, this new place is finally home.