You CAN go home again

(You Can't Go Home Again is a novel by Thomas Wolfe published posthumously in 1940. The phrase “you can’t go home again” has entered American speech to mean that once you have left your country town or provincial backwater city for a sophisticated metropolis you can’t return to the narrow confines of your previous way of life and, more generally, attempts to relive youthful memories will always fail.)

The past year, many of the posts and blogs on Malvern Patch have been devoted to perspectives regarding the “new and improved” Malvern versus “Malvern of yore.” I accept the fact that I readily submitted more than my 2 cents worth of opinion and certainly tend to wax nostalgic about Malvern in the ‘good old days.’

Saturday, with the launch of the Farmer’s Market and prior to the crush of Malvern Blooms Fest, I decided to take myself, wearing more objective-lenses, and engage in Malvern as if I only vaguely knew of its history. I drove up Old Lincoln highway noticing construction and detour signs. I continued on past Malvern Hills on my left and some older quaint homes on my right. I reach the stop sign at the bottom of Bridge Street and see a town in the midst of renewal while also seeing townspeople mowing lawns outside of their older twin houses. A pretty ordinary town.

I cross over the train tracks. Come to a stop and see storefronts. Some readying for business, some in transition. The succulent smells from the Flying Pig remind me of my mission to head to the Farmer’s Market, and, despite open spots on King St., I do a 3 point turn and find a spot in the Municipal Building lot.

I’ll refrain from telling you of my purchases, but will tell you that I saw many young families. Strollers, dogs, kids. A lot of parents gathered around the playground, protectively watching as their little acrobats climbed and ran after one another. A few times, while I was waiting to try some yummy Chevre or hummus another adult stepped in front of me rudely. But, this happens everywhere.

I decided to walk. Up and down King Street. I see an elderly homeowner planting in his small front yard. Clearly a home which had seen decades of Malvern’s history. I interact, while waiting in one store, with a group on a tour called “Best Kept Secrets” and find they really are strangers to this place called Malvern. They “oohed” and “ahhed” with the news that a Farmer’s Market was within walking distance from their cars and began the consumer caravan towards the possibility of Swiss chard and manna.

I bought an old desk chair from Malvern Elementary school for my daughter’s room. A little souvenir of Malvern history. I carried chair and groceries amid the beeping and somewhat colorful language of drivers who found the snail’s pace on King a bit too slow for their liking. This too, happens everywhere.

I place my precious purchases in the back of my car and decide to drive up and down the various streets of this Malvern. I see pockets of uniquely architected older homes which clearly have seen marriages and births, tragedy and deaths. I see the hull of new spaces being built which will, undoubtedly witness the same. I see sprinklers trying to awaken grass and teenagers trying to sneak a secret kiss. I pass a library, the police station, a ball park, and historical Monument grounds. I exit the ‘outskirts’ of the borough and find the many tertiary roads which eventually lead to the Mainline and then the City. Really, just like other ordinary places.

I arrive home and unpack my loot.

I realize that you can, in fact, go home again. And that not much is different in the long run. Facades may change, vendors might be different, but the people, the ‘community’, the feel of the place aren’t much different than it was for my parents or grandparents. Yes, it is pride mixed with comfort which make us preen our feathers at our own memories of ‘what used to be.’ And in every new building, every added traffic light, there is concern of the changing landscape and what will be lost for the sake of progress. But really, nothing is lost.

For those of us who were there before, Malvern is within us like a bunch of postcards in our mind’s eye and in our hearts. For those new to our beloved Malvern, it is the place where their dreams will be realized. And, someday, let’s hope that their children, like my children, will walk these same streets with the awe and wonder of life in a small town. A place we all call home. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E2VCwBzGdPM