Over the years I’ve grown accustomed to leaving people, and events, behind. The leave-taking began more than six decades ago, when I left home to enter college. I suppose my lack of homesickness, or any regrets associated with leaving, were minimized as a result of my view, at the time, that my so-called “home life” was not overly satisfying. My family of origin could readily be described as “nonfunctional.” The same might be said of high school friendships. On the other hand, I did have a decided feeling of homesickness when I arrived in Ithaca, New York, to begin my graduate studies. My years at Kent State had been very rewarding in so many ways. At Cornell, I missed the familiarity of the campus I had loved and the friends I had made there. Most important, there was my separation from Karen, who still had her senior year to finish before we would be married. When I had met new, fellow graduate students at Cornell and had settled into my own apartment, the “left behind” syndrome ended. It did not return during all of the moves that followed.
I have had many changes of address over the years. During my time at Kent State, I never spent two consecutive years in the same place. This was equally true for Ithaca. During my first year, I had a room in a private home, with facilities shared by other students, before I moved into an apartment which, later, became my first place for living as a newly married couple. We lived in two other locations in the years before I graduated. There was even a transfer to another apartment within the same building, before our daughter was born.
The moves continued. Two years in Hanover, New Hampshire, with a different address for each year. Then, two years and two more places in Corvallis, Oregon. My five years with the NIH saw residences in Bethesda, Wheaton and Rockville, Maryland. Fortunately, we had only one house in Amherst, Massachusetts. I actually enjoyed each move.
With a new address, came an opportunity for a new life, especially when a new city was involved. The major disadvantage resulting from our multiple moves was a drastic decrease in being able to visit with our own parents. When we lived in the East (Ithaca and Hanover), Karen and I journeyed to Ohio for Thanksgiving, Christmas and summer vacations. Karen’s parents and mine managed to visit us for a few days in both of those college towns.
My parents traveled to Oregon for three days, long enough for them to see the zoo in Portland and experience the cold waters of the Pacific Ocean, while picnicking with us on the beach. Our return to the East Coast allowed for brief visits by Karen’s parents and mine in both Amherst and Bethesda. Each set of parents was able to spend a Christmas at one place or the other, as well as a birthday for a grandchild or, in the case of my folks, a First Communion for Deb and for Ken. It was because of the difficulty our children had in getting to know their grandparents that we made the decision, once I had retired, to remain in Houston.
Our three kids had become Texan at heart. Deb left for San Antonio for her senior year at Trinity University, having spent the first three at Syracuse, along with a semester-abroad in London. When she returned to the Alamo City following her graduation, with brief interludes in Lubbock, Texas and Eagle, Colorado, her absence from the immediate family did not seem to be a challenge. The drive-time between Houston and San Antonio allowed the three of us to visit every few months. Now, Karen and I engage in a more limited driving, we have continued to meet for lunch some place in between – from Columbus through Schulenburg, Flatonia, Hallettsville, and Gonzales to La Grange.
Ken no longer drove to and from College Station, and Christopher finished his college drives to San Marcos. They married and settled down with their own families in the general area of The Woodlands, making visits with them possible for holidays and special occasions, as well as whenever we could coordinate our individually busy schedules.
Until recently, our grandchildren’s generation was firmly established with Houston as its focus. The ones who went off to college in Texas returned home and found wonderful spouses. They began to gift us with great-grandchildren. But times do change.
One of our granddaughters, Kirby, married Stephen, who began to establish his own career in finance. His company provided him with a year-long reallocation to New York City. Upon returning to Houston, he was offered a new opportunity in Atlanta, Georgia. Kirby and Stephen moved there a year ago, to become the first of that generation to live outside of Texas.
Two weeks ago, her father, Chris, mentioned that he and Kelly were buying a house in Gadsden, Alabama, about a two-hour drive from Atlanta, and would be moving there. He had retired from being a high school administrator a few years ago; Kelly had also retired from her full-time position teaching high school mathematics. Their younger daughter, Kennedy, could readily continue her nursing career in a hospital in Atlanta. I suddenly felt left behind.
While it’s true I had never really thought much about how my own parents might have felt about my own cross-country moves, I now realize what they might have experienced when I left home, even with my recognizing the problems we had during those years when we lived in the same house.
Traveling is much easier, now, than when Karen and I left Ohio for the East, West and Southern Coasts. Nevertheless, recent events have brought about a new orientation for me. The months of follow-up for the COVID-19 pandemic have had their own impact on everyone. There are also the normal effects of passing into the second half of my ninth decade. While I realize our own parents were able to visit us occasionally, it is less likely that Karen and I will be able to travel to Alabama and Georgia.
Having chosen to remain in Texas, where our own children and grandchildren have lived, I intellectually appreciate Chris and Kelly wanting to be near their own children and grandchildren-to-be. At the same time, I admit there is a realistic question about my own future interactions with them. When they finally do move, which is still an unknown date and will remain so for many months, I wonder: “when will I see them again?”
The answer is not known. The aging process, itself, is coupled with an appreciation of human mortality. Karen and I were not present for the demise of our own parents. We had, once, expected that our descendants would remain in Texas for the remainder of our lives and would be available during our final days. This is no longer a certainty. At the outset of these reflections, I entitled them: “Left Behind.” I trust this designation should remain and the words should not be changed to “Right Ahead!”