This past weekend we spent a couple days camping with family. This has been a family tradition since I was a kid, but this event (like all other family events) is taking on a different character now that some of us former kids have kids of our own. We ate some great meals, took some wonderful hikes through gorgeous fall foliage, and wore out the toddlers: it was a very good weekend.
On the way back home, we had to pass by our old neighborhood on the east side of town. It is nearly the first anniversary of our move and we decided to do some drive-by reminiscing in the old neighborhood. The horrible pavement on the main through-street had been resurfaced. The new parkway had been completed. Condos were going up on a former vacant lot, while another lot awaited a similar fate. At our old house, one of the burning bushes out front had died, while crabapple trees in back seemed to have grown three feet taller. The neighbor across the alley still hadn’t finished that deck project he’d been talking about for years.
So much was still familiar, after all we spent five years there. But this familiarity didn’t make the old neighborhood feel like home. We’ve moved on. For a while after our move last year, it felt like our sense of home was buried in a moving box somewhere. Now our boxes are all unpacked, and our drive-by in the old neighborhood was just more interesting fall scenery to enjoy on our drive back home.