You Can Never Really Go Home Again

Home for me is Minneapolis, Minnesota. I was born at Fairview Hospital in Mpls., a couple of months premature though you’d never guess that looking at me now. My earliest years were spent in North Minneapolis; the addresses I remember are 1000 Dupont Ave and the Sumner Field projects at 909 Aldrich. The projects are gone; I imagine the duplex on Dupont is still there. I left home to go to college when I was seventeen, except for a few visits at Christmas while my grandparents were living; I never really returned.

I didn’t escape from Minneapolis; I had several good friends and many good experiences. I enjoyed my high school years and loved my family. I returned to attend my 50th high school reunion. I had some misgivings about going. Through Facebook, I knew that many of my best friends were no longer with us; Shawn H, Michael P, Scott P, Marshall F., and more. I’d known all of them since eighth grade. Marshall (Howard) I’d known since I was five as we attended church and Sunday school together. There were some others I expected to see, but each was a reminder of those who were gone. If this were Cooley High, I’d pour wine on the ground for the brothers that weren’t there.

Photo by Carol Spivey

I brought my wife with me that had never been to Minneapolis. It was an opportunity to share a part of me she’d only heard of. We retraced my steps, passing my elementary school (Field Elementary) and the home I grew up in on the Southside at 4220 Oakland Ave. I’d written a rather long short story (Between Portland and Park) about those years, and she got to see my house and the homes of Mrs. Fischer, the McMoores, Lyle, Danny, and Mark, and the fictional Yvette based on a girl I barely remember. We rode through the alley, which was much narrower than I recalled.

We attempted to go to Minnehaha Falls, a place we used to walk to as kids, but it was so crowded with no available parking, so I changed my mind, settling for seeing the Mississippi River. We went twice to the George Floyd Memorial, which was in Minneapolis, but after my time.

Photo by William Spivey

My brother, Scott, who lives in Ohio, got word through social media that I was in Minneapolis. He suggested I pass by some of the sports venues in the area, the homes of the Minnesota Vikings, Minnesota Twins, Minnesota Timberwolves, and the Minnesota Gophers football team. They all had new stadiums, but my memories were of the old.

Williams Arena is where the Gophers played basketball. My high school was a mile away; my friends and I would sneak into the Gopher games, sometimes after playing in our own high school games. We arrived one night just as a fight broke out between the Gophers and Ohio State, it was madness, and we were there.

My grandfather took me to our first baseball game, a stadium that no longer exists. The Twins were playing the Cleveland Indians; Sonny Siebert pitched for the Indians. The Twins won, supported by homers by Bob Allison and Zoillo Versailles. The steamed hot dog from the concession stand may still be the best I ever had.

I used to usher at Viking games at Metropolitan Stadium when they played outside. At halftime of the coldest games, fans huddled in the tunnels and restrooms, the only places protected from the wind. I’ve been to the indoor stadium that replaced Metropolitan Stadium; now, that too is gone. My high school played football games at Memorial Stadium, where the Gophers played. They, too, have a new stadium.

The new thing I saw was the Paisley Park Museum, the former home and recording studio of Prince, once known as the Artist Formerly Known As … If you asked me anytime after 1984, I’d have said Prince was my favorite Artist. I saw him live on his first tour, opening for Ashford & Simpson in approx 1981. Going to Paisley Park was a wonderful experience, but I don’t equate it with home; my love of Prince began after I left home.

Photo by William Spivey

I attended the reunion, which was fine. I don’t mean to diminish the experience. I talked to friends and friends of friends I hadn’t seen in fifty years. Some are Facebook friends I chat with regularly. I showed off to my former history teacher what I recalled of the Sino-Soviet Alliance of 1950 and our takeover of another classroom. I remembered competing with Ted Westacott in Mr. Reck’s math class. I recalled what Judy Cornelius looked like when she was seventeen; I had a crush on her, though she never knew it. I enjoyed catching up with Duane and Candy Whittaker. I passed messages along to Candy’s sisters and 97-year-old mother, asking for forgiveness for involving her daughter in a car accident. I chatted with Larry Lundberg, Noel James, and Ted Westacott. The reunion alone made the trip worthwhile, but the missing friends kept me from feeling at home. My old high school was now torn down and replaced with University of Minnesota student housing, so there’s that too.

I went to my old church on what was supposed to be my last day in Minneapolis (a Delta cancelation extended my visit a day). I first attended the old Zion Baptist Church on Olsen Highway. We contributed to the building fund for years before having enough for the new building a mile North. I remember the day the congregation walked from the old building to the new as part of the transitioning ceremony. It wasn’t long afterwards that Rev. Holloway and, among others. Rev. Curtis Herron, from Kansas City, preached a trial sermon and got the job. Rev. Herron was my pastor for the last years I spent in Minneapolis.

The building was the same. Pastor Herron passed on, but his son, Brian, a childhood friend, was now the pastor. Brian was the last person I expected to become a minister, and it took him a while to find his calling. Yet, his mannerisms and style were just like his father’s. My wife and I were seated in a middle pew before service, and Brian, now Rev. Herron, recognized me before I saw him. We hugged and spoke for a few minutes, and for a moment, it did seem like home. It took a while, but all the things that differed began to sink in.

I’ve always lived by the motto, “Home is where you are!” I’ve lived in Nashville, Jacksonville, Orlando, and Palm Coast and have always learned to be at home in those places. There was a bit of nostalgia in returning to Minneapolis, but it wasn’t really home. Home was my grandmother’s macaroni and cheese, hanging out at Loring Park or playing basketball at MLK Park, singing in Zion’s youth choir, and running to catch the 9B to get to school. I have many memories of home, but I’ll never be able to duplicate them, which is fine.

I’m happy to create new memories with my wife, kids, and grandchildren, Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz said, “There’s no place like home,” and she was right. But home also isn’t a single place. So, make your home wherever you are and relive the best memories when you revisit the places you’ve been. There’s nothing wrong with being at home everywhere you are. That’s my plan for now and the future. Take care!

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This post was previously published on Unpopular Opinions.

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