The Journey Home

A few days ago, I returned from a trip to Akron, Ohio, my hometown and the former “Rubber Capital of the World.”

Like many young adults, my future seemed a “given.” Like my parents and grandparents before me, of course I’d stay in town and eventually be interred at Holy Cross Cemetery. In my certitude, I neglected to consider what John Lennon once acutely observed: Life is what happens when you’re making other plans.

In my late 20s, I left Akron, and made my way to Washington, DC, Knoxville, Tenn., and Seattle before reconnecting (43 years later) with Blake, my Akron high school sweetheart who, by some miracle, had relocated to Whitman County. We’re now married and spending our golden years here in the Palouse.

Back to Akron: It’s been several years since I’ve been home. Not surprisingly, like me, it’s changed. Akron’s outskirts were once farm fields; now they are filled with “big box” stores, condos and subdivisions. As I carefully navigated the busy interstate between Akron and Canton, I wondered how I’d ever mindlessly driven the DC Beltway. The passage of time was even more evident as I looked for the rubber factories whose locations I recalled. Today, vacant buildings or empty land are the only evidence of their former existence. Ditto the hundreds of small businesses that once supplied their needs.

Although I very much enjoyed my visit, the initial excitement of corporate retail and fast-food restaurants on every corner quickly diminished and the contrast between here and there soon became glaringly obvious: Has anyone ever actually considered selling giant TVs or franchise meals a noble pursuit? Then, I wondered what, in my absence, was occurring here? I missed the sights and sounds of farm equipment lumbering down Rt 27, the steady procession of grain trucks making their way to the terminals, the breathtaking view of literally thousands of acres of “amber waves of grain,” and the rhythm of the seasons. At the end of my travels, I learned a valuable lesson: Rather than a location, home is where one hangs their heart.