Home Again

About an hour into a 6-hour drive, having reaffirmed my talent as a world-class vocalist (that is, alone in my car with the windows tightly rolled up and the music playing at near deafening levels), I reach out and click off the radio and begin to contemplate: "Why am I on this mission? What am I in search of? What do I expect to find?" I have always held a special place in my heart for a small town, smack dab in the middle of Texas. Destination: the 20-year reunion of Mason High School, Class of 1981.

The locals will tell you that Mason, population 2,013, is situated "100 miles from anywhere." It's true! This quaint, Norman Rockwell-esque setting is located 100 miles northeast of Austin, 100 miles north of San Antonio and 100 miles south of San Angelo. It is the place of my most cherished childhood memories. As a child of the'70s, I belong to a generation I like to refer to as the "Lost Generation"--too young to be Baby Boomers; too old to be Generation X'ers. We were not old enough to be affected by events such as the death of JFK or the Vietnam War. We were just kids learning about life from a perspective deeply rooted in family values and an overall respect for our community and ourselves.

In today's society it seems as if having cable TV and its 500 channels of global programming is a God-given right. In contrast, back then our local cable company, for which my dad worked part-time, provided nine channels of network television and became one of a very few links to the outside world. This remoteness was embraced by the community and created an opportunity for Masonites to define and execute their vision of social values. This was a time and place where doors were never locked and children roamed from backyard to backyard without parents fearing their well being.

To prepare for this trip, I contact a Bed & Breakfast over the Internet. The hostess replies via email that she has a room available and that I can stay there if I don't mind that the hostess will be out of town. As she offers, "The doors will be unlocked just go on in and help yourself." Can it be that the paranoia instilled by being a current day urban dweller has not, to this day, invaded the hometown of my youth?

I cross over into Mason County, and the first wave of nostalgia sweeps over me like the embrace of a long lost friend. The first vehicle that I've seen in over 20 minutes approaches and, without provocation, the driver passes and gives a friendly wave as a welcome to his part of the world. This is something that I remember vividly, as my old neighbors waved at anyone passing on the road without prejudice. I can't wait until I come upon the next car on the road so that I can be the one who waves first.

Arriving at the B&B, I step inside the beautiful Victorian home tastefully decorated with the theme of its name, "Seven Sisters." Pictures hang in every room and hundreds of books fill every possible shelf space. I step into the main sitting room and notice an aging, upright piano against one wall. My father bought us a piano similar to this one when we first moved to town--a piano that became my close and personal friend through many agonizing years of lessons. My childhood piano was poorly tuned, but I consider that part of its character--along with the water stains from an iced tea glass that had worn out its welcome on the top right hand side, and the missing ivory from a key in the upper clef.

As I approach this piano, I feel a strong sense of déjà vu. I sit at the bench. Can it be? I slowly lift the lid to the keys--there it is! A key is missing its ivory. How can I be sure? I remember the piano had a temperamental key that would freeze at the most inopportune moment. I hack my way through a piece of a song that has been lurking in my mind for months and, sure enough, there's that pesky "B" that had long ago allied itself with brute force instead of the usual finesse that most piano keys long for. With the solemn respect usually reserved for a funeral, I slowly close the lid and leave the room smiling with a warmth that fills my soul.

On my way to the reunion, I drive past the old elementary school. Not much has changed (except EVERYTHING is smaller than I remember). There is that old slide that seemed to reach for the sky. Near the fence are the monkey bars that I had spent many an afternoon scaling. …

As I walk into the restaurant, I go through an overwhelming experience. One by one I become reacquainted with the friends of my youth…and it's as if time had hit the "pause" button and now is kind enough to press "restart." Relationships that had been on hold pick up where they left off. There stands the jock, the beauty, the "cool" ones, and the brainy, nerdy minister's daughter that always seemed to score just a little higher than me on every test. Some of us have less hair and more weight (and conversations revolve around issues of parenthood and the economy instead of The Captain and Tennille and Mood Rings), but otherwise things are pretty much they way they had been (except that my intellectual nemesis blossomed into a beautiful woman, whom I would have probably married had the planets aligned differently). In other words, the old adage might be wrong after all--you really can go home again.

DaWane Wanek

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