There's something very sweet, very humbling about having your parents pick you up from the
airport and drive you to what used to be your home for so many years. After I adjusted to the below freezing wind slapping me in the face, I bundled up in the backseat and took in the ride down the streets of Omaha... and memory lane.
First, we weaved in and out of the Christmas tree-lit streets of downtown's
Old Market. I had a flashback to when Andy Bouska, my high school boyfriend, and I spent the night outside here once in the early 90s, in an attempt to raise awareness of the homeless epidemic of the city. (Those were the days I thought I could change the world.)
We then turned down the unassuming and comfortingly quiet 20th Street. In an eternal moment, all senses flooded my memory banks: the car filled up with the smell of my Dad's cologne, the sounds of the Beatles' 10 o'clock hour on the
radio and, visually, my childhood whizzing by me on each side.
There was Piccolo's where we had special meals at -- graduations, guests visiting from out of town, even a wedding reception or two. Then the now-for-sale building that was once home to Poopsie's Bar (where I swear I thought I would have my first drink at... but never even made it in). And, on the right, the yellow house that Craig Roberts (3rd grade boyfriend) used to live in (who, by the way, dumped me for Kerry Synoweicki later that year. Jerk.).
A quick right on Martha, a few more blocks to 23rd... and now we're in front of the house. I step outside to take a photo of this festive location and it's a bittersweet feeling knowing this will be the last Christmas I spend here, since my parents just purchased a new ranch-style home on the west side of town. But I'm sure it was the cold air that caused my eyes to water.
Once inside, I scope the joint -- everything seems to be pretty much the same as when I left it last Christmas. I check to make sure the important necessities of my stay are present: wireless internet - check; keys to mom's car - check; hummus & blue chips - check. And there in the corner of the dining room still stands, what my Dad affectionately calls the "Carolyn Shrine" -- a GI-NORMOUS photo of me from senior year of high school, complete with permed hair, contacts, an off-the-shoulder velour top and a soft glow to make me look slightly angelic. Mom assures me that the photo will have a new home over one of the two fireplaces in the new house (whew - I was so worried!).
After a bit of storytelling and picture showing, I retreat to my old bedroom. Most of it is how I had left it years ago, but at least my folks' upgraded my
day bed to their old queen. I crawl into it and glance to my right to take inventory of my bookshelf: an old ballet shoe made into pewter, a NKOTB license plate given to me on my 16th birthday, photos from pom pon competions, a bouquet I caught at the first wedding I was in (or, more technically, ripped out of another girl's hands) and statues of
samoyeds and
cougars and
Mary's.
I fought for a way for many years to get out of this place, to see the world, to escape the seemingly small town that was stifling me. And yet, on a cold winter's night in 2008, I understand there's really no place like home.
