Thomas Wolfe once wrote a novel titled “You Can’t Go Home Again”. Much of Wolfe’s writing focused on that theme as he would explore his Southern roots.
The above picture is of Zummo’s Coffee Shop. Beside the cafe is a run-down two-story house. I lived on the first floor of that house until I was 7 years old. The cafe now takes up that entire first floor. So on a recent visit to Scranton, I decided to visit Zummo’s and have a coffee in my old home.
It was a strange experience. I was struck by how small the space was and that it once included a living room, kitchen, and 3 bedrooms. Others often say that, when you go back home after being away for a while, your old home seems smaller. As I sat in that old living room, I recalled too that this was a place of sadness and grief.
Zummo’s was once a neighborhood grocery run by Vince Zummo as well as a shoe repair shop run by brother Tony. The memory of penny candy and the smell of leather lingered in my mind.
When we return home we are reminded of the tyranny of life. I spent some time with old friends. We reminisced but the tyranny of life was also evident in the losses and illnesses my friends had experienced.
My childhood was not ideal. No-one’s is. But we sometimes long for those memories that reflect a time of innocence. For me, many of those memories are ones of smells. The smell of the cut hair and Bay Rum of my grandfather’s barber shop. The smell of a piece of candy like a spearmint leaf or a root beer barrel. The smell of my aunt’s peanut butter cookies. Those smells are long gone but, as I sat in that coffee shop, I longed for them.
After I drove by Joe Biden’s old house, I passed Maloney Field. It is now occupied by buildings belonging to Marywood University but what I saw in my mind and heart was a huge empty field where we would play endless hours of baseball and football.
I drove by the second house I lived in on Jefferson Avenue. Again the smells. Burning leaves in autumn. The crispness of the breezes as I looked out my bedroom window to see the honking geese pass in front of the moon.
Near that house was St. Joseph’s Hospital where my younger sister stayed for 4 months before her death from spina bifida. I now wonder what memories that stirred for my parents since we lived nearby. That place also used to be a home for unwed mothers who were the subjects of nasty sermons by local priest. I remember seeing them walking the neighborhood. They looked like teenage girls to me, not big sinners.
I drove by St. Clare Church (left), part of St. Paul Parish. I remembered the sacred smell of incense. My spiritual journey started there. Some of the memories of that church and nearby school have required some healing.
I experienced other memorable smells on that trip — a pizza from Granteed’s, a hoagie from Hank’s, a good authentic Italian meal.
Indeed you can’t go home again. But I am grateful for the memory of good smells.
I find the trip best summed up with this wonderful closing speech by Rod Serling from the episode “Walking Distance” of The Twilight Zone:
Reflection: Have you had experiences that said you can’t go home again?
