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A house left behind, a good home life remembered

By Rex Huppke, Tribune Content Agency on

And on the winding drive back to the old house from there, I remembered the rhythm of the turns, how even if I was dozing in the backseat of the car, I always knew when we were getting close to home.

Home.

I didn't think I would ever be there again. I had left it dead, and in my anger over life taking turns I didn't like, I buried a treasure of memories under a pile of sorrow and spite.

Maybe that's why I went back. Maybe after losing my dad I was searching for something to make me feel whole again.

It helped. I'd recommend it.

We're all going to lose control of some part of our lives at some point. We're all going to get angry and bury things.

But maybe, after time passes, we're better off digging them up again.

As I stared at the aging, white-and-burgundy ranch house, I noticed the sloping driveway. As a teenager, I would run at night, looping through the neighborhood and finishing back at the base of our driveway, sweaty and exhausted. I'd lay down on that slope and look up at the stars, feeling the day's heat radiating up from the concrete.

Then I'd go inside, my mom and dad would be there, and I'd be happy.

I had forgotten that feeling.

It felt good to remember.

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(Rex Huppke is a columnist for the Chicago Tribune and a noted hypocrisy enthusiast. You can email him at rhuppke@tribune.com or follow him on Twitter at @RexHuppke.)

 

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