Who, What, When and Where

The word nostalgia is derived from two Greek words – nostos, meaning 'homecoming', and algos, meaning 'pain'.

The medical professionals who coined the word nostalgia in the late 18th century were describing a serious emotional and physical condition wherein sufferers were incapacitated by the despair of homesickness. It was a debilitating disorder and was even grounds for removal from military service if it was perceived as compromising a soldier's sense of purpose.

Today though, it simply describes wistful thoughts of earlier times and places.


I mentioned in a prior post that I recently returned from vacation. I traveled from my home in Rhode Island to the remotest corners of southwest Virginia where I grew up. My mother’s family was having a big family reunion (she was 1 of 11 kids) so I packed up my boys and headed for the mountains.

I have a lot of nostalgia for my hometown. Everything about it is different from where I live now. It gets dark a full half hour later in the Summer and there are literally thousands of lightning bugs out at dusk (compared to zero at my house). There's no iced coffee to be found. The coffee is black and strong and always hot. The tea is sweet and cold.

The pace of life at my house in Rhode Island is perpetually hectic. But when we vacation at my parents' home, the laws of physics seem to go right out the window. Velocity and speed are different functions there. A body in motion does NOT tend to stay in motion in Glade Spring, Virginia. You rest or move depending on who needs a push on the swing, how many ears of corn need to be pulled for dinner and how long the ice lasts in the drink before you have to raise yourself from the lawn chair and return to the house for a re-fill. Breakfast isn't a bowl of cereal wolfed down or a granola bar eaten in the car. Its French toast, bacon, muffins and fresh fruit every day. Lunch is pimiento cheese on toast and dinner is garden fare - with everything on the plate coming from the land you're sitting on. By contrast, in Rhode Island, the closest we get to "locally grown" is probably the Chinese take-out place that got cited a little while back for serving seagull.

Yes, I exaggerate, but only to show, in no uncertain terms, what a romantic view I have of the place where I grew up compared to every other place on earth, including the place I now call home. I definitely slip on a pair of rose-colored glasses every time I start down Interstate 81. In my head, its an idyllic world down there where time moves more slowly and everybody waves when you drive by. But on this most recent visit, the glasses came off and I think I saw clearly for the first time in a while. It happened the moment I watched pigeons fly out of the broken second story window of a formerly stately, but now derelict, turn-of-the-last-century Main Street building.

We all know that small towns across America have suffered of late, losing jobs and business to the "big box" chains first, and then to a sour economy in general. Storefronts sit empty and over time, the vacant buildings succumb to weather and wildlife. Owners lose the ability to maintain them without income and the results are devastating to the character of the place. Once grand architectural details crumble, glass cracks, paint peels, water gets in (along with stray dogs and squirrels). Pretty soon foundations start to heave, bricks break and roofs collapse. Nearly every little town I spent time in as a kid has experienced this to one degree or another. I grew up in a town of 1,200 people. There's only so much of this our country's truly small towns can take without appearing to be left for dead.

The same day I made my revelatory pigeon observation, I read a piece in TIME Magazine by humor essayist Joel Stein, expressing similarly severe nostalgia for his hometown of Edison, New Jersey. He took a serious beating from his writing peers for the piece (perhaps deservedly so) which was actually about immigration. Read it and decide for yourself here: http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1999416,00.html

But Mr. Stein's under-lying theme resonated with me nonetheless. It seemed to be about how "you can't go home again." The reason obviously being that "home" never continues to exist as you remember it. For example, I stared at the building where Lonnie's Market had long provided cold popsicles for a nickel on a hot day. I remembered the inside of the squatty little space clearly, even though it had been 30 years since I stepped foot in the place. There were wooden shelves and only one cash register. They had penny candy and "sewing notions." You could buy an RC Cola and a Moon Pie and stand there chatting while you ate it. God only knows what's going on inside that building now. . . In that sense, there's little that's recognizable about the Town where I grew up. So many people my age have left for lack of opportunity. I began to seriously question the sanity of a person who would feel homesick for such a depressing little place.

But another thing happened the day I watched the pigeons access their newly acquired real estate and it made me put my rosey glasses back on.

My Mom works out at "Curves" almost every day. She has always said nice things about the lady who runs the place, Robin. Robin allowed Mom to put out a cutely decorated 3-Day donation box for her patrons to help with my fundraising. I wanted to meet Robin and thank her for that so I went with Mom and the plan was, I would walk some laps around downtown to get some training miles in while she did her Curves routine. As we approached the glass entry door of the old brick building, it opened from the inside before we quite got to it. I don't remember exactly what was said, but the next thing I know, I'm pulled inside this adorable little place where everyone is all smiles and this Robin lady has both arms fully around me. And I'm hugging her back and it's the most warm and genuine hug I have ever received from a total stranger. This was no token peck (classic Rhode Island); and not a simple pat or that brief, awkward squeeze we've all gotten at one time or another from a distant relative or touchy-feely co-worker. This was the real deal. This is what makes me homesick.

There's something about these small-town, mid-Atlantic, Appalachian people. They are friendly and hospitable like all southerners. But they are also humble, respectful and self-sufficient in a way that makes them come across as a little more private and even stand-offish to outsiders. At the same time, they are strong and loyal and would gladly sacrifice selflessly for any member of their clan or community. Once they identify you as one of their own, the outpouring of affection is authentic, immediate and permanent. I don't think you get this to the same degree in places where the crowd is less home-grown and everyone is from somewhere else. You start to miss it. Its rare to be pulled in and so fully embraced by people unknown to you. This kind of acceptance and love only comes from one place; home. Whether you're in city or suburb, farm or village, coast, mountain, or tented camp in a 3-Day host community. . . . It occurs to me that the reason I'm so fond of The 3-Day may have to do with pure nostalgia. The short-lived spirit of togetherness is a trip down memory lane and it is generated by people who aren't part of your family and aren't from where you're from. You are welcomed and embraced just the same. After all, it is the event where the secret handshake is a hug.

I thought I was homesick for a certain time and place before. Now I know it's not about a "where" or a "when." It's about a who. So, for the whole of my 3-Day family, and everybody else out there, wherever you go, may the people you're with make it home.