Who Says You Can’t Go Home Again?


Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again

Actually, I didn’t write that. And I went to my old house in Marsh Landing Country Club, and it wasn’t a dream, and it was not a burnt wreckage, and there wasn’t a ghost of the crazy wife in the attic or a blinded ex-lover wandering in the ruins. Although, with the continuous house party I waged in my final drinking years, the Boxcar Children could have taken up residence in a closet and I wouldn’t have known….


I suppose you could say I lost my “dream house” because of my drinking. But unlike many of my neighbors a few years ago, I did not leave my home by cloak of night, a U-Haul idling in the drive, or with an apologetic coterie of deputies carting my belongings to the curb. It was all quite civilized, and the people who bought my house have become good friends of mine.


As it turns out, I was there alone at nightfall recently, and it was a little spooky (don’t worry, I didn’t break in or anything…). It felt like a rite of passage somehow: wandering among my memories and their stuff; sitting on my couch with their upholstery; opening a familiar pantry with unfamiliar contents; looking out at a hightide Intracoastal with uncharacteristically clear eyes. Remembering that with all the splendor, and with all the good times, I was never terribly happy living there…



It looks a little bit spooky in black and white, right?


Lisa, if you are reading this, it wasn’t like I looked in your underwear drawers or anything, I was just getting closure. And I love what you did with the place and I avoided the wine cellar, and I took a La Croix gassy water with grapefruit out of the refrigerator drawer…


Who says you can’t go home again?


Today I’m not drinking because I’m “mixing memory with desire”…

How come you’re not drinking?