The title of Thomas Wolfe’s novel You Can’t Go Home Again has become an expression — better known than the novel itself — to describe nostalgia for a bygone lifestyle after moving on to something else … something “bigger” … something “better.” I first left my little hometown of Bishopville many years ago, first to go to a residential high school not too far away, then to college three hours away, then to grad school six hours away, and then to work in DC seven hours away. I came out of the closet, I went back to law school, I became a “big city lawyer” in DC, I met a Frenchman and married him, and then I pulled up stakes and went off to lead a bohemian life in Paris. Even after all of that, I still wonder how true that expression is —
Can I really not go home again?
Ten days ago, I traveled back to South Carolina to surprise my parents for Christmas. It was my third trip back here this year and, like all my visits, it has been a restorative experience. There’s just something about the quiet nights, the fresh air, the landscapes — whether swamps, fallow fields, or pine forests — that makes me feel at home. The sights, the sounds, the flavors, the sensations … the familiar sates an appetite deep inside that I’d almost forgotten was there. And when the time comes to leave, I’m full again.
Here’s a gallery of images from the last few visits to give you an idea of what it is about this place that makes it so special to me.
To open the gallery, simply click on one of the photos below (or on a white space if nothing appears). You will then be able then scroll through all of the photos in a larger format.
The post continues after the gallery.
As stimulating as life in Paris might be, the truth is that nothing inspires and restores me like a sojourn on that little piece of earth where I grew up. Now that my parents are older, and the repeal of DOMA seems less like a hazy dream, I’ve started to seriously ponder what it would be like for me to live here again. Could I do it? Could I bring Michel here? Could he survive that? Who knows? It’s far too early for us to say right now. What I can say, though, is that — like that sycamore in my folks’ front yard — my roots run deep in this sandy Carolina soil, and I have to come home to nourish them …
I can go home again — if not for good, at least for a little while — and for what remains.
© 2013 Samuel Michael Bell, all rights reserved