Believe it ~ You Can Go Home Again

Not long ago I was back in my hometown Arlington Heights, Illinois and, as always, just being there stirred up wonderful memories and feelings. I was there to take my mother-in-law, Audrey, in for a routine colonoscopy and had some time to kill between the drop off and the pick up. I took the opportunity not to do something productive as I usually would, like clean Audrey’s bathrooms or walk her dogs. I decided to be completely indulgent and take my own personal stroll down memory lane. Because I have been best friends with my husband, Scott, since age 12 many of these are memories that we share as a couple, making them all the sweeter.


I started off at Arlington High School, driving on both the Ridge Avenue and Walnut Avenue sides of the campus. I remembered “borrowing” my brother’s white Vega when I was 14 (okay, I stole it while he was hung over) and driving by the school, certain that everyone would see what hot stuff I was. I remembered walking the nearly 1 ½ miles to campus one warm 1980 fall day wearing spike heeled clogs, sure that my feet were bleeding beneath me, but more sure that fashion always took precedence over comfort. I remembered going to the very top bleachers of the Grace Gym and making out with my boyfriend when I should have been on the lower level of the school at lunch. To this day I remember the halls of that school as though I passed through them just yesterday.


My journey through Arlington Heights progressed to downtown, which I just barely recognize anymore. What used to be a sleepy Chicago suburb is now home to soaring condos and chichi bistros. The folks walking the streets downtown are no longer families with 3 or 4 or 5 kids heading to Hagenbrings for new spring clothing, but rather ambitious young professionals and the occasional gay couple. There remains only snippets of my old world, like the Dunton House restaurant or the amazing community library. I paused in front of each grand establishment, allowing the memories to wash over me.


I trekked back to my childhood home on Dunton Avenue and on my way saw where large McMansions have replaced many of the smaller 3 bedroom/2 bath homes. I saw houses where I went to parties and parks where we went to drink Southern Comfort we had swiped from our parent’s basement bar. I saw the elementary school where I threw up in the hallway in 5th grade and just knew my life was over at that moment. I drove by the junior high school where I first met Scott, clearly not knowing then that this skinny, smiling, goofy boy would one day be my beloved life partner. Finally on Dunton Avenue my childhood home looked smaller than I recalled, but the rush of love and nostalgia I felt at simply viewing it was indescribable. I resisted the urge to knock on the door and demand to be let in my home, but still can’t believe someone else has taken up residence in my house.


It was time to head back to Northwest Community Hospital, to retrieve Audrey and settle her back at her home with her two endlessly annoying and still-peeing-in-the-house poodles. Listening to what they now claim is the “oldies” station I made my way back south on Kennicott Avenue, still somewhat lost in 1972 (“Day After Day” by Badfinger”) or perhaps 1977 (“I’m In You” by Peter Frampton), or maybe it was 1981 (“Urgent” by Foreigner). I was all smiles, so giddy with memories that I couldn’t wait to rush back to my own home several suburbs to the west and coerce Scott to join me on this stroll down Memory Lane. Hubby is more of a “look to the future guy” rather than a “focus on the past man“, but we were gonna reminisce damnit!


Then, in the midst of my musing and driving I saw it. Right there, parked in the front of a tidy brick ranch house, was the exact car I learned to drive in. Same color (kind of copper/gold), same model (Caprice Classic) and same year (1978). It was as though the spirits were following me on this journey and simply to amuse themselves they dropped this auto in front of me. I was stunned to the point that I actually stopped my SUV, much to the annoyance of another mammoth SUV driver directly behind me, who promptly gave me the finger. I got chills just looking at this car, sure that it was a mighty sign from above. As I stared, my heart suddenly pounding, I saw it…


AV license plates. AV as in “Antique Vehicle”. AV?! Antique?! It was just yesterday, or maybe 10 years ago, 15 at the most that I learned to drive in that car. Right? Let’s see ~ ~ I am 45 years old and learned to drive at age 16, so that would be…umm….29 years ago. No!! It can’t be. Let me check that again ~ April 2009 minus October 1963 equals 45, minus spring 1979 equals…Antique Vehicle. It was like a cruel slap in the face, this aging vehicle staring back at me with it’s a.m. radio featuring WLS and it’s bench seats so perfect for canoodling on dates. I am snapped back to reality and the joys of routine mammograms and mortgages and child rearing. If I choose to now I can buy my own Southern Comfort and parks are now for swinging not swigging. Shoes are a comfortable necessity in this stage of my life and heels are reserved only for date night. I am the antique and my kids are not likely to dispute that.


Like the 1978 Caprice Classic I would like to think I have aged well. But you know what? With every passing year it matters less and less, because there is just no stopping the passage of time. Botox be damned and time marches forward. Those memories of Arlington Heights, though, are amazingly priceless. And the next time Audrey needs my taxi services the peeing poodles will just have to wait as this jaunt into my precious past has just begun.