Home(town) Is Where the Heart Is

A familiar beacon, the town's water tower. 

Although I was born in California and have lived in the Bay Area for 25 years, I will always consider Pendleton, Indiana, my hometown.

It's where I attended grades 1-12 and whiled away sticky, sweltering summers at the ballpark and public pool. It's also where I - ahem - lost my virginity.

Except for a few hiccups along the way, I had a mostly happy upbringing. But despite the town's positive influences on my younger days, I still couldn't wait to get the hell out of there. I was one of only a few kids of Asian heritage, so I never felt that I completely fit in. Add to that those awkward teen years - years made even more awkward by someone telling you that you run like a girl. But no matter how I ran, I ran fast - and I had a plan, too. I'd run all the way to California to live with my sisters after I graduated high school. I'd meet other people with Asian roots - and other boys who ran like girls.

But memories, whether good or bad, seem to keep me coming back to Indiana. I took an early summer trip there to visit my two older brothers and their families. We're terrible about keeping in touch because we're men of few words when it comes to phone conversations. We much prefer (and are much better at) speaking with our hearts. I caught up with nephews and nieces, some of whom had new high school diplomas, new homes, new families of their own. Sure, this made me feel a little old, but I'm more thankful than anything that they are doing well in their lives, that they keep family close. I don't see them as much as I'd like to but that doesn't mean I don't adore them any less.

9006 Surrey Drive, Pendleton, Indiana. The house I lived in from ages 6-18. 

I also visited my aunt and uncle, who immigrated to the U.S. in 1978 from South Korea with their two children and my maternal grandmother. They have an incredible garden in a rural expanse of earth just outside Indianapolis, complete with a small fish pond where a blue heron once swooped in for a meal - uninvited. 

I saw their daughter, my cousin Ahran, for the first time since her kidney and pancreas transplants. Diabetes had wreaked havoc on her young body. She was on a waiting list for organs for too gruelingly of a long time. I know the waiting and false alarms were torture on her and am so grateful that doctors were able to finally, FINALLY locate a donor with viable organs. She's always had an infectious smile, but now you can't see the worry poking out from behind it. (I don't think it's there anymore.) I hugged her more tightly this time. I also got to meet her partner, Douglas, who had endured a similar surgery. They found each other on Facebook. I find that so touching and modern. I am so happy that she’s found love - and with someone who completely understands her journey.

I drove out to the brick two-story yellow house on Surrey Drive, pausing to marvel at the maple and apple trees my father, brothers and I planted. They now stand taller than the second-story roof. I imagined Dad mowing the enormous lawn which I despised having to rake. I thought of my younger brother, Joe, who during the eulogy at my father’s memorial service in 2004, held up a simple photograph of the house. There were no people in the picture, yet it told so much. Joe said it reminded him of Dad. I understood completely. A place has no soul until someone brings it there. My father brought it there. He brought us there.

Our next-door neighbors, the Cliftons, still lived next door. In fact, Marvin, whose swagger I'd recognize in a crowd of thousands, just happened to be out trimming his hedges. I jumped out of the car to greet him. He didn't recognize me until I told him who I was. He had completely white hair as did his wife, Martha. They filled me in on what their children (and grandchildren) were up to these days. I could tell the years had been good to them.

Deeper into the old neighborhood – the charmingly titled Fiddler's Green – I noticed the wide open spaces of my childhood were now occupied with impeccable homes and meticulously manicured lawns. Despite the telltale signs of suburban sprawl, folks in Indiana still don't fence themselves in like city dwellers. It's a testament to the state's warm, welcoming culture. People still leave their doors unlocked at night. Strangers wave at you as if they've known you all their lives. Evening chats on the front porch are a tradition that even the "lightening bugs" seem to approve. I saw friends from high school whom I hadn't seen in 25 years, yet it was so easy to just pick up where we left off.

It was wonderful and fulfilling to relive what I'd forgotten that I loved about being back home again in Indiana. I never thought I'd say that - and it feels so good that I did.

While waiting for my flight back to California, a massive thunderstorm threatened to deter the journey. Was Mother Nature trying to keep me there? Did the sky suddenly sense my sadness in leaving a place that has meant so much, erupting in tears to match my own? I like to think so.