Can you really go home?

You can’t go home again was Thomas Wolfe’s second novel and the quote most often attributed to him. Critics, reviewers, philosophy aside, I can say that statement is largely true. Particularly when ‘home’ has been somewhere else for twenty-eight years since my father’s passing. Despite being the eldest of six siblings, and none of us still living in the community where we were raised, I always saw my father as the paste that still stuck us together in this place. 

Dunkirk Ohio is a sleepy little community on Route 68 north of Kenton in the middle of Ohio’s cornbelt. If there weren’t two stoplights on Main Street most passers-by would never stop at all on their way to Toledo or other points north. 

As I write these words sitting on a park bench in the Dunkirk Community Park and have taken the penny memory tour down most of its streets and down memory lane, I am reflecting how very little remains of the village I once knew. I knew it intimately once. I was a paperboy here from the age twelve to the age of eighteen, delivering both a morning and evening paper from two rival newspapers to all points in and around town on bicycle. I wonder now as I sit here if there are any paper boys left in this digital age. 

A bright sunny August Saturday morning with a gentle cool breeze, and yet at nine thirty I am alone, waiting on a meeting with my youngest sister. Three baseball fields, mowed and groomed, sit idle. Swings, slides and other recreational toys stand quiet flowing with a gentle breeze. No children anywhere. In the distance I see three industrial wind turbines quietly generating energy. These are new to the landscape. A row of them leads west to another sleepy town of Dola. The town’s water supply stands proudly in the park. Another change as the Iconic tower on the south side is gone, for I don’t know how many years. The park has three playgrounds, a basketball court and has quadrupled in size. Yet stands empty on this pleasant Summer morning. Gone is the old army tank. All that remains in its place is a sign that says keep off the tank. It has been moved downtown in what looks like a Veteran’s Memorial that remains unfinished. 

The Familiar and the Strange Coexisting

As I drove here from the majestic mountains of central West Virginia which has been my home since I met my pen pal and married her in 1974, I saw more and more sky as I reached the flat cornbelt country of Hardin County. And I was comforted in this post-Covid crisis year as I saw mile after mile of field of corn and soybeans, alfalfa or hay between the straight highways. Comfort indeed. Many friends had discomfited me telling me that last year many Ohio fields had gone unplowed, or since Marajuana legislation had passed last year, many farmers had elected to plant a more lucurative crop. It is comforting to know that corn is still king in the cornbelt. 

I swung by the old home place at 259 West Patterson street. Looks strange now. The shrubs and trees that framed the property are all gone now. Gone is the more than two hundred year old black walnut tree that stood gigantically over the property and was there even before the house was erected in 1803, a year before Ohio was even a state. The grape harbor of Concord purple and white Niagra grape vine imported in from the early 1800’s and so tenderly kept producing by my father are all gone. A cheaply erected vinyl swimming pool in a metal frame stands where they used too. The allys behind the properties all gone now as homeowners have reclaimed them. Home doesn’t even look like home anymore and has changed ownership at least thrice since my father passed. 

Oh to be sure, some things have remained. The little Methodist church on Walnut where I attended Sunday school with my family is still there. The old Rail Road control building is still there at the intersection of what was the New York Central and the Pennsylvania Railroads. The campground for many decades of revivals stands, freshly painted and property groomed. The Dairy Dream still stands next to the Masonic Temple, an icon deserted now. Even the K-12 school I attended for 12 years stands where it always did, but the Hardin Northern school like a modern movie monster has blossomed, exploded all over itself in new growth completely engulfing the original familiar structure. Park in the back I am instructed for my 50th Class Reunion and come into the cafeteria. Wonder which of these doors that is?

I took time to visit the Dunkirk Cemetery. No one there has moved. Sorry. Couldn’t resist. My father and mother are buried next to one another. So is my maternal grandfather and grand mother buried not far from them, also together. Next to them is my sister Linda’s child stricken shortly after birth. 

Except for a few strangers who stopped at the Dairy Dream that morning and early afternoon I encountered no one. No homeowners, neighbors cutting grass, no teens on the streets or children playing in yards. Like a moment stuck perpetually in time: buildings, empty streets and quiet houses. No dogs barked.  No cats wandered about. Only a gentle breeze moved leaves about on the trees. 

A Mini-Stuber Reunion

The first to arrive to our pre-arranged meeting in the park was my nephew Jessie whom I had not seen since he was a little more than toddler living in downtown Kenton on Cherry street. We had met only hours earlier Friday night at his dad’s house (I will relate that story later in this missive). Next to arrive was my sister Jean whom I had not seen since we stood together at the graveside of our father. We had talked a number of times by phone, and I had seen her a number of times in other family photos and posts, but this is the first time we had actually got to sit face to face or hug in more than two decades. She had son Josh and a granddaughter, Sarah’s girl Jacquline (Jack) with her. She looked tired, but I knew why. She had gotten off a shift earlier and was expected to work again this evening and I had pulled her nearly 70 plus miles away from needed sleep. I would try to keep our reunion brief as I was aware my sister had places to be. Final arrival was Jean’s daughter Hannah whom was the most familiar to me as we have been following one another on Facebook for years. We may be opposites politically, but being a hard-working, old-school capitalist like myself working the American dream, she was a niece I was proud of, and come to know well. She had her daughter with her. Both teens soon wandered off on their own, being teen girls who had more in common with each other than any of us. We didn’t let a photo opportunity, however, pass us by. Jessie remarked that this was the first time he had seen some of his cousins, others not for years. It was a learning opportunity for all of us. I got a warm hug from both Jean and Hannah, but I got many warm hugs from Josh, Jean’s developmentally challenged son. He took to me quickly. Hannah assured me that he did this with most people. In fact, in many quarters both Hannah and Jean are known as: “that’s Josh’s Mom” or “that’s Josh’s sister.” Everyone who gets to met him, learns to know him and love him. One of those souls that no one cannot like.

It was a good time. Too brief. But we had covered much and promised this would not be our last. Maybe we could actually pull off a Stuber reunion next year. After hugs and photos and a few hours that felt like minutes, we went our separate ways. I was alone in the park again. I wandered about the town once more, taking photos.

Fiftieth Hardin Northern Class Reunion

I would learn more about the town later that night at my Hardin Northern High School 50th Class Reunion. I learned many of my 47 classmates still lived in around the county. I got there earlier than any of the others. I straightened out the ‘Welcome Class of 71’ sign that had been wind blown off the fence at the entrance and was waving like a flag. I wandered about the property on the outside. All unfamiliar. The gravel playground where a rocket shaped monkey bars stood was all paved over. Tracks, sports fields all about me where rows of corn once stood. 

Many of those arriving I recognized as I sat in my vehicle. I knew them from Facebook or from friends. Some looked familiar, just older. Others would floor me completely as I could not imagine that these were people I spent twelve years with in this very building fifty years earlier. 

There were a dozen people whose images in the room were forever stamped with the familiar. There was a table in the cafeteria which held the senior photos of those who had passed. 1971 Alumni deceased include: Robert Curl, Robert Donley, Janine Fulton, Timothy Garman, Ronald Gerlach, Dan Minix, Mike Southward, Ruth Warmbrod.  Many of these relatively recently. The exception being Mike Southward who died tragically shortly after graduation.  Another student peer not on the table, because he was.not a graduate having quit school early in high school, was Daryl Lamb, who died in a train accident before all of us had graduated. 

Of those not in attendance, we had group prayer for Bob Bash, whom had recently successfully beat cancer and now was suffering from severe pneumonia in an era of a respiratory virus pandemic. Certainly he could not attend. 

Only 17 of us signed the register. In alphabetical order they were: Steve Baertche, Patty (Ward) Dysart, Max Garmon, Tony Good, Cheryl (Goddard) Good, Karen (Pees) Koehler, Sharon (Erwin) Lucas, Eldon Messenger, Joe Oman, Sharon (Frederick) Purdy, Barbara (Lenhart) Roberts, Fred Rush, Pam (Webb) Spangler, Gary Lee Stuber, Wayne VanSchoik, Jeff Wilson and Starla (Titus) West. Other alumni did not sign. However two teachers attended: James Steele and Bob McBride, as well as Principal Clay. Some spouses as well accompanied alumni.

A young principal gave us a tour of the inside of the sprawling structure. Some sections, like the elementary hall, and the old gymnasium were familiar, other sections had not existed during our tenure in the school. The new office, the new basketball gym, practically any thing on the Dola side of the school which was a parking lot in our time. It was impressive. 

The student body however was much smaller. Less than 300 students from kindergarten through grade 12.  By comparison there were 47 of us 1971 graduates. We were told that the classes being smaller were more intimate, allowing all students, even struggling ones to succeed. Good. Something good. 

We had a delicious dinner and dessert on tables that allowed us to group and/or mingle. The event this year hosted by fellow 1971 alumni Fred Rush with assistance by the former Frederick twins, Sharon and Karen, also ‘71 alumni. Other classmates who lived locally assisted as they could. We swapped stories, family photos, laughed, hugged, shook hand and took a ton of photos together. 

It was precious time I am glad we got to share. I am 68 years old. I don’t know how many more of these I could attend, certainly not in another 50 years. I am glad I got to be a part of this. Hopefully it will not be the last time I hear from my fellow classmates. We were still one of the few classes in our generation that were raised old school. Rural. With common traditional values about life, love, loyalty and American patriotism. Our stories vary, but few of our base values do. And we have passed these as we could onto a second and third generation. Which makes us all out of step with the current popular culture in our country. I hope my classmates know how much I appreciate them all for this. 

A Second Mini-Stuber Family Reunion

Friday night, and Saturday night after the reunion I spent at by younger brother Robert’s house outside of Kenton. That sound’s strange. Always called him Bob. So I got to share two evenings in great conversation with Bob’s youngest son Jessie. He is such a card. He’s funny, witty and has an opinion on everything. Reminds me so much of Bob when he was younger although both of them wouldn’t be able to see it. Bob, disabled now, walks painfully and for the most part is quiet and sober, serious. Jessie is bold and verbal, bubbly and optimistic. 

Yes. Optimistic. Jessie has been wheelchair bound for more than ten years. And for the longest time was defeated, a victim, who had no future. Then, maybe because of family, friends and much prayer, Jessie stopped being a victim. He suddenly seized life. He began improving his health as well as his attitude. Now he is on his way to, well, everywhere!  I love this young man, my nephew. He has for the first time in many years a real future. Driving his own vehicle, living independently. Making a good life for himself and others. 

Discovered sister Linda was in Tennessee this weekend, tending to son Glenn’s daughter they thought had Covid. Turns out it was just strep throat infection. Youngest brother Joe had attended his only son Jason’s wedding in Virginia. Congratulations Jason. So I was able to make contact with my only other sibling Mike, who agreed to meet at noon on Sunday at Bob’s house. He ran an hour late. But meantime Tamara, er Tammy, turned lunch into a feast with Turkey and more. And along with the feast came other son’s Justin and John with family in tow. Was a great time for all. Mike’s arrival was stunning to say the least. And familiar being that Bob lives in the cornfields only miles from the heart of Amish country in Ohio. You would have mistaken him for one. I certainly did. 

Hated to leave but my home was calling. Joyce was waiting for me. And while granddaughters Akira and Chloe were keeping her company this weekend, I missed her as much as she missed me. So we promised each other we would try to convene a Stuber Reunion sometime in the summer of 2022. May God in his mercy keep us all alive and well to make such an appointment. No dates or places have yet been established.