“Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.”
—Robert Frost
Ties that Bind
In my early years I led a gypsy’s life, dragged hither and yon by two hungry parents who just couldn’t live on the rations of small-town life. I remember each bareboned apartment, every summertime sweetheart, and all the baseball teams I could never really call my own. I was always just passing through—a squatter with no true right to anything. But I knew I had a place somewhere. It was out there, just patiently waiting at the very end of the road. There would be a fancy house, a yard, and maybe a dog. We would have neighbors and a congregation, and I would know everybody’s name—and they would know me. I would have some friends and a baseball team. And my father’s feet would stop, and he’d just take a seat and enjoy it all. And there would be no more tears at night. We would tie our memory to that place and run it long through the years, and we would never be strangers again.
We did find the end of that road, much sooner than anyone had expected. My father’s feet had finally stopped, but only at the edge of his grave and with just $20 to his name. There was no fancy house there—no neighbors, no yard, and no dog. Rather, we found ourselves on a small farm deep in the Ozark hills, miles from the nearest living soul, surviving on the kindness of kin I hardly knew. It wasn’t all bad. The woods there were ancient and mysterious, and the river bottoms brimming with tadpoles, salamanders, and crawdads—a paradise for a young boy. And of course, my grandmother was a saint: tough as boot leather and a bit mean when crossed, but with a big heart for broken children. And so she looked after me like I was her own and always had me clean, schooled, and well-fed. We listened to Rush Limbaugh together right after lunch and watched Bernstein musicals just before bedtime. Every single day.
There were still tears, but I was old enough to hide them. During the day when I would wander about the barnyard, just out of sight of the house, I would see his face or hear his voice, and my heart would begin to swell until the tears came. And at night I’d lay there in the dark with the junebugs tapping on the window, and I would try to smother the sobs deep in my throat. The bareboned apartments, Billie Jeans, and ballgames of yesteryear would come flooding back in those quiet times, and then he would be there, feet moving and eyes shining with happy expectations. A fancy house, a yard, maybe a dog, and lots of friends and neighbors just waiting for him at the end of the road. A place for both of us.