I actually did knock on the door of my childhood home. When they answered, I explained that I grew up in the house, asked them how long they'd lived there, who they'd bought it from, what happened to the big willow in the front yard, asked how the pink dogwood that we'd planted was doing (it was huge now, or as huge as dogwoods get) and stuff like that. I guess they must have thought that I was harmless (and clearly I knew enough about the house history to be telling some sort of truth) because they invited me inside to see what they'd done with it.

It was the possibly the most emotional experience of my life. It felt like seeing an old dear friend who was wearing new clothes. I cried like a baby; couldn't help it. A lot of stuff happened in that house, not all of it good. But it was my history and as I love me, I own what made me, well, me.

I may go back again someday.