You Can Go Home Again...

When I was in Rye, NY, last weekend for an author event at the library, I had time to swing by the old homestead at the top of Hill Street, not at all sure I’d get to take a peek inside.

I’d emailed the current owners (Internet search) but hadn’t heard back. I decided I’d try nevertheless. Worst scenario, I told myself, they’re not home or they’ll say no.

Sixty years ago this summer, my family moved from Rye, where I’d spent my entire childhood, to Munich. It was a wrenching goodbye to all my friends and all I’d known.

I’d driven past the house a few times before but never had the nerve to knock on the door.

Turns out I didn’t need to knock. The owner, a pleasant-looking woman, saw me walking up the familiar (and beautifully refurbished) flagstone path.

“Can I help you?”

I told her my name. “I grew up in this house from 1954 to 1966 and…”

“…you want to look around inside?”

“Yes! Would that be all right? I don’t want to intrude!”

She hadn’t seen the email. “Of course!”

Turns out my mom and nephew had stopped by about ten years ago, when Mom was still mobile and her memory intact-ish, so the owner, Kerry, knew my name and my family’s Rye history.

I was sure they’d have renovated it to a typical Westchester fancy-modern interior. But no! Hardly anything had changed. Even the furniture was lovely-old-fashioned, complementing the dark tones of the hardwood floors and beamed living room ceiling.

Kerry’s husband was watching TV in the enclosed front room, which was once a screened-in porch until my parents turned it into Dad’s study. I have photos of birthday parties on the old porch, my friends gathered round the decorated picnic table wearing our frilly dresses, lacy anklet socks, and patent-leather Mary Janes. 1950s idyllic.

Kerry was so welcoming and accommodating! She even took me downstairs to the basement. I told her as a kid I’d bring along a hammer in case the bogey man lurked behind the furnace. Luckily, no fear this time.

The only structural change is a gorgeous deck off the dining room, accessible by a French door—the door that replaced the window that appears in my book, the window my dad looked through as I slow-danced to “Michelle” with Jerry at my dreamy boy-girl party on June 24, 1966. Sixty years ago!

Upstairs to the three bedrooms and one still-tiny bathroom for their family of four—mother, father, son, daughter. The young-adult son was fast asleep and never knew I visited his-our room, including the closet, which also appears in my book.

I took photos to share with my brother, Donnie, and cousins Bobby and Nancy, the only living family who would remember, and promised Kerry I wouldn’t post the interior pix publicly. Here’s an exterior view of the special alcove in Mom and Dad’s bedroom, circa 1959-60.

And with Mom and our cat, Snezhy, on the front stoop:

Downstairs, I noticed the front-hall closet, where Donnie would plant a tape recording (reel-to-reel!) of haunted sounds to greet the many trick-or-treaters every Halloween. Kerry recalled similar traditions. I shared how we’d pose in front of the house on special occasions—saluting in my Girl Scout uniform, wearing my red-velvet dress with the appliqué rose for Donnie’s Bar Mitzvah, Mom and Dad in their wedding garb on their tenth anniversary in 1960. Kerry described posing in that same spot for her family’s milestones, too.

Outdoors, flashes of hide and seek, croquet, riding the crossbar on the lawn mower while Daddy pushed. Sledding in the winter, biking in the summer. Eagerly waiting for Daddy to arrive at the top of the hill after work in NYC, sporting his fedora and toting his briefcase, then greeting Mommy making dinner in the kitchen.

The house oozed history—twelve years encoded in my brain and heart.

So you might think I’d be awash in melancholy, longing, grief, loss.

But I wasn’t.

No tears. No catch in the throat.

Surprisingly, I felt something akin to peace, appreciation, contentment. Acceptance.

Yes. I was that child once. And I’m not that child anymore.

Yes. I grew up in that house. And I don’t live there now.

I don’t need to go home again. It’s all inside me.

And Kerry, who shares the space in all ways.

Last Sunday, I enjoyed a rich conversation with Alison Cupp Relyea, co-founder of the Watershed Literary Festival and author of SOUNDTRACK: LINER NOTES FROM A PANDEMIC MIXTAPE, at the Rye Free Reading Room (my reason for going back to my hometown). Deep thanks, Alison, and much gratitude to the small group of friends and family (thanks Bobby and Kathryn, Amy and Jeff!) and community members who came out on a beautiful day and asked great questions. (Ginny: Dang power outage! Jodi: Dang stuck train! Next time!)

Here’s the online version of Laura Schiller’s feature article, which appeared in the May 22 Rye Record.

This week, I recorded an interview with the phenomenal Ronit Plank, of the Let’s Talk Memoir podcast. What an interesting and wide-ranging conversation! I’ll link it here in the fall when it airs. If you don’t know Ronit’s work or her Substack, please check it out.

AND my recent guest appearance with the ever-prolific Estelle Sobel Erasmus on her award-winning podcast Freelance Writing Direct will air in late June or early July. Link to come when it’s up.

• May 13: Featured on Jodi Sh. Doff’s new, wacky, wonderful series called “Short Attention Span Reader,” where she judges a book by its cover and riffs with the book’s author. So fun! Be sure to subscribe to Jodi’s Substack, “Only the Jodi: Life as a Sober, Aging, Dementia Caregiver.” Good stuff, always.

• I’m thrilled to announce that ESCAPE VELOCITY was honored as a Finalist in the 2026 Next Generation Indie Book Awards (Memoirs/Other) category, one of seven books recognized alongside this year’s winner!

• For more, visit the Media page on my website.

To order ESCAPE VELOCITY, go to 227 Press, here. For complete info and links, please visit my website.

Thanks for reading! Hope you’re enjoying my Substack, where I post my musings every Friday. I’m keeping a free subscription option for the foreseeable future, but I’d be grateful if you’d lend your support by subscribing ($7/month or $70/year) and sharing. Much more on my website!