What does “coming home” mean?
A friend of mine from Minnesota, long a union mover-and-shaker in Washington, D.C., recently wrote that “You Can’t Go Home Again, written by Thomas Wolfe, made it clear what this tension is that I feel. After 21 years gone from Minnesota I feel an existential angst when ‘coming home.’
“It took me many years to accept that it wasn’t home anymore – Maryland is. I tend to be overly sensitive to things. Moving away was the hardest thing I have ever done (not involving losing people to death and a couple … of other ways.) It has become almost a tortuous trip full of ‘dead memories,’ things that were real, or did I see them in a movie – and why was I in that movie too?
“I’ve come to understand places as having their own weight or wavelength. When I found out a few years back that gravity actually fluctuates around the globe, it made sense to me. I’m rambling I know – but have others felt this way too? Do you have a hard time returning to a place? In the end I know moves can be very important and you can grow from them. I also think Americans move too much and also lose a lot in the process. In the end I can’t square it exactly, but I too have learned you can never really go home again.”
Thought provoking questions, all, to be sure. Where and what indeed is “home”?
I grew up in Southern Ontario in Oshawa, just east of Toronto. Within five months of my going off to university in 1976, my dad had retired from General Motors and my parents retired away from there. Suddenly a place I had taken for granted as home wasn’t so much anymore, and never has been since. I unexpectedly but quickly lost most of my sense of connection to Oshawa. Some 40 years on I’ve seldom been back. Since leaving Oshawa, I’ve lived and worked across much of Canada – from Nova Scotia to the Northwest Territories – as well as spending time living in New Hampshire, Massachusetts and North Carolina. For the last nine years, I’ve lived in Thompson in Northern Manitoba. Yet on some level – time and tribe perhaps – Oshawa and Ontario will always be home. I can close my eyes but for just a minute and it is 1974 again, and I know exactly where I am and who I am with, and they know me in ways others never will, as the music on the AM radio band provides the soundtrack for our lives. As do train whistles.
I’ve always found them to have a haunting, slightly distant sound that engages the soul instantly. All through my childhood, growing up in Oshawa, an east wind invariably meant two things: You could hear the train whistle from the CN tracks well south at Bloor Street, and rain, long steady rain, was an hour or two, not much more, away. You could not hear the train whistle at any other time from the house I lived in from the age of six to 19, and while it rained at other times, especially with summer thunderstorms, with winds from other directions that was more unpredictable. An east wind started the clock running for the countdown to rain. For me, east winds and train whistles are so internalized they’re still part of my chronobiology at some deep level.
Years removed from Oshawa, I would still notice the haunting but not at all unwelcome sound of the train whistle when I would visit my mother, who lived near Amherst, Nova Scotia, on Fort Lawrence Road, east of Exit 1, as the Via Rail Ocean passenger train, en route from Montréal to Halifax, or Halifax to Montréal, crossed the saltwater Tantramar marshes between Amherst, Nova Scotia and Sackville, New Brunswick, a stone’s throw from the Missiguash River, bordering New Brunswick and Nova Scotia and connecting the Nova Scotia peninsula with those who come from away elsewhere in North America.
The saltwater Tantramar marshes, sometimes referred to singularly as the Tantramar Marsh, is a very special place indeed, and was even long before the first train crossed it in the 19th century. Memory surrounds you everywhere in Nova Scotia. This is the soil my Acadian ancestors lived and laboured on. Like being a teenager in Oshawa in the 1970s, again, all I have to do is close my eyes for but a moment listening to Lorena McKennitt’s The Mystic’s Dream and I clearly hear the words, “All along the English shore,” and in my mind’s eye I see the Acadian tricolor of blue, white and red, the gold star Stella Maris at top left, seeking the guidance and protection of the Virgin Mary, patron of the Acadians.
This is Aulac Ridge, a prominent rise running west to east across the Tantramar marshes on the Isthmus of Chignecto, just west of the Missiguash River. This is the demarcation line between Fort Lawrence and Fort Beauséjour, New France and British North America, New Brunswick and Nova Scotia, overlooking the Cumberland Basin of the Bay of Fundy.
Nowhere, of course, in the song are the words, “All along the English shore” actually heard, not even as a mondegreen where you mishear the lyrics to a song, which is a sort of aural malapropism, where instead of saying the wrong word, you hear the wrong word as a result of near-homophony, in a way that gives it a new meaning. No, this, as it was for Marcel Proust, is remembrance of things past.
While my hometown of Oshawa is a lot bigger (and for that matter older) than Thompson, it was in many ways, at least as I recall it from growing up there, a lot like Thompson in being a working-class blue-collar town.
The men in my Nipigon Street neighbourhood – guys like Earl Kirkpatrick, Snow Willson and my dad – were often working six days a weeks, with overtime on Saturdays when they were on day shift. If they were on nights, they’d be busy flooding the Nipigon Park outdoor rink at 2:30 a.m. – after their eight-hour night shift ended and they went to bed – so us kids could skate the next day. That’s how I remember my dad.
Instead of going to Inco or Vale and down into a mine or working at the surface in a refinery or smelter, the men (and they were invariably men back then) I knew in the 1960s carried their metal lunch pails into the factory at General Motors to build cars and trucks. When they were leaving at the end of their shift, they punched the same clock they had coming in. Every time I hear Men of the Deeps sing Rise Again or Working Man, my union resolve deepens just a little bit more.
I spent the first of five summers as a university student, beginning in 1976, working in that very same West Plant in the high-seniority Completely Knocked Down (CKD) department my dad had retired from the year before. Some of his buddies were still there; some I had heard about for years and met for the first time.
My first job was hammering large wooden crates together. It was just an amazing cavernous building that old West Plant with great big windows and wooden floors. I remember once going across the tunnel (or bridge, I’m not sure now how it was referred to) connecting the West Plant and the North Plant over Division Street. Later that summer, I hung rads in the rad room of the old North Plant across the street.
You Can’t Go Home Again tells the story of George Webber, a novice author, who writes a book that makes frequent references to his home town of Libya Hill, a fictional small town set in the South, to find it is no longer the peaceful place of his youth. The town is caught up in frenzied real estate speculation that precedes the stock market crash of 1929. The book is a national success but the residents of the town, unhappy with what they view as Webber’s distorted depiction of them, send the author menacing letters and death threats.
Wolfe took the title, You Can’t Go Home, from a conversation with Australian-born journalist Ella Winter, who had remarked to him: “Don’t you know you can’t go home again?” Wolfe then asked Winter for permission to use the phrase as the title of his book.
The title acts as counterpoint to nostalgia, which is so often weighted with both inaccurately positive bias and an inability to appreciate the changes wrought by time on places and people we remember as static and permanent. In general terms, it means that attempts to relive youthful memories are never as fulfilling as during their initial creation. Webber realizes: “You can’t go back home to your family, back home to your childhood … back home to a young man’s dreams of glory and of fame … back home to places in the country, back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed everlasting but which are changing all the time – back home to the escapes of Time and Memory.”
Up here in Thompson, we tell people home is where the heart is. Raymonde, the head cashier at Giant Tiger here, has built a new home with her husband to retire to in a couple of years back in Campbellton, New Brunswick, on the south bank of the Restigouche River opposite Pointe-à-la-Croix, Quebec. Another friend and colleague from University College of the North here, who arrived in Thompson in July 2007, the same month and year I arrived, is soon decamping to return home to the Membertou First Nation, just outside Sydney, Nova Scotia on Cape Breton Island.
Others, perhaps surprisingly stay on here long after retirement. A friend from Grand Falls-Windsor, a town located in the centre of Newfoundland and Labrador, has told me many times he and his wife go back for visits every few years but have no interest in moving back to the Rock with their children and grandchildren in this area, where they were born and raised. Maybe Brandon, he says, thinking about moving some day maybe, because the winter is milder, if not less stormy in Southern Manitoba. It’s a not unfamiliar story. Another friend saw her parents move this past winter, after five years of retirement back home in St. John’s, to Sanford in the Rural Municipality of Macdonald, just a few kilometres southwest of Winnipeg in south central Manitoba. Grandchildren and children – family – trumping other considerations over the longer run.
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