OPINION: Home again
May 1-I moved back to Manhattan in 1996, having been gone a decade. Felt very familiar, since it's where I grew up, but I marveled at the change - millionaire houses in Sharingbrook, the Linear Park, the way the mall had changed downtown, the fact that people actually went to football games.
Keep in mind that in those days, when you were gone, you were really gone. The only way you could see photos from home was if Mom mailed them to you. The only way to keep up with what was going on was to get The Mercury by mail, usually several days late.
Thirty years later, here I am again, moving back to town after a decade away. This period of exile was far different, since I was back several times a week and directly wired (wirelessly) into everything and everybody at all times.
What I notice isn't so much the change. It's not the progress, or the decline, that jumps out at me. It's the people.
Yes, there are changes. Aggieville is urbanized. The giant houses this time have exploded around Colbert Hills. The university has replicated itself north of Kimball. The athletics megaplex keeps getting bigger and fancier, as do the medical offices and retirement homes. Speaking of which, this time around it seems like I know everybody at Meadowlark Hills, and I spend a lot more time with the obits. But that's about me, not about the town.
Thing is, it's still a town. The very first column I wrote for The Mercury back in 1996 concluded with an anecdote about an insurance agent, whom I was calling for quotes, hearing my name and saying: "Oh, so you're moving back to town! You must have a high school reunion coming up." It was nice to feel like somebody again.
By that, I should clarify that I don't mean "somebody," as in a celebrity, just because I'm the newspaper guy. I mean "somebody" as in a person, a human being with a past and with connections. The best part is that it's mutual - I know that about a lot of other people, too. I know the guy at the pharmacy window; I can ask about his son whom I coached in baseball. I know the lady at the Dillons checkout. The plumber. The landscape guy - turns out my wife was college roommates with his cousin's really good friend, and his wife was in the sorority that my great-grandma helped start. Manhattan is the kind of town that, when you need help moving, you can wrangle a bunch of high school football players, and it turns out that one of them is the grandson of the guy you've played tennis with for 40 years. (By the way, Dave, I'll be calling as soon as we get the neverending move entirely done, if you're still game.)
Oh, and the insurance guy? Yeah, I'll also be calling. And yeah, we've got a reunion in June. Should be a hoot.
The connections only deepen with time. Being gone means some of them wither, and maybe you didn't build as many new ones as you could have. But what I notice this time around are that there are more than ever, and they're still there, and there's the promise of more to come.
Nice to be back. See you around.
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