wherever I go

 When I say home, I'm usually talking about the place I grew up. The place where I went to grade school and high school. I realize that isn't true for everyone, but I think the majority of us think that way. You do have to know the context of the conversation before that becomes true, if I'm talking about the past or in the present. Home came up in a conversation I was having and then, once again, I had to remind myself I was talking about fifty years ago. A half a century ago I was home. The reminder was that when speaking about "home" I am no longer the expert. Wait, read that again. I am no longer the expert on home. I can only speak with authority about home fifty years ago and that home no longer exists. That home is a part of history. My history, and my history is exclusive to me. 

 When I joined the Navy all those years ago, I never thought that I wouldn't come back home. In fact, during my first four-year enlistment all I talked about was going home. That was true with most of the people I served with. We all talked about home, going home, and when I get home. Whenever possible on leave or liberty I went home. A few days was fine, visiting family and friends. More than a few days however wasn't so much fun, my hometown friends were either in the service or working. They weren't around to "play." Home was still there but the house felt empty. I did return after the first four-year enlistment and stayed home for two years. After two years I reenlisted for a variety of reasons, left town and have never returned. Well, I have visited once or twice, once for a class reunion and to bury my father. It was on my last visit that I discovered, home wasn't where I left it, home had moved on.

 There were years that I spent thinking about moving back home. Then that became more of a dream, if I win the lottery. I've told myself about my roots and how I belong to that land. I've written and researched. I have ancient ancestors buried, back home. I have descendants and relatives that still live, back home. I have found myself claiming that heritage. But now, now I realize that is all in the past, yesterday. It is heritage and I can rightfully claim that heritage, or at a minimum, a portion of that. A heritage from fifty years ago. Certainly, a different time and place than what exists today. I carry a legacy forward however, with the telling of my stories, of the day when I was home. I have discovered you don't need the land, or property, to do that. I have photographs, artifacts and memories. And isn't that what legacy is really all about? It began when the first cave man drew a picture on the wall. 

 It has taken some time to understand. The home I speak of is history. It is what was as I saw it, indeed as I lived it. It is often different than what my contemporaries saw or lived. It's rather a strange thing, to talk of something in the first person, that existed in the past. Strange when talking to someone that wasn't there that is. Then, there is no expert, only memories and speculation. Memories on my part, speculation on theirs. Stranger still is that is true even when talking with others that were there! History is recorded by many voices, by many memories. Do I miss home? No, I'd have to say I do not miss home in the way most people think about that. I have no desire to return to that location. Home isn't there anymore. The time, the people, and the place have all changed, as have I. Home, I have discovered is a place I took with me when I left that place, I am home, wherever I go.