If you read this column regularly, you might have noticed that it sometimes gets phoned in from the Antipodes. In a magazine that is for, about, and based in small-town Louisiana, this probably seems incongruous. So I should explain that I’m in Melbourne—my childhood hometown—to be with my mother, who has been hospitalized since suffering a stroke just before Thanksgiving. These trips back to the place I can’t help still thinking of, on some level as “home” have happened more often as my parents have faded. In fact, the last trip was in May 2024, after my dad, with characteristic lack of fuss, had a heart attack while heading out for a pizza, laid down on his own front porch, and quietly died. It had been a while since I’d seen him, and during the long flight down this time, I kept thinking of the line from The Importance of Being Earnest where Lady Bracknell says to Mr. Worthing, “To lose one parent may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose two looks like carelessness.” This time I mean to keep a close eye on my one remaining parent as she recuperates, and hopefully, gets back on her feet.
So, for the past two weeks I’ve been commuting back and forth between the city hospital in which Mum is confined to the stroke unit, and the house where I grew up. During the evenings, when roaming the empty house looking at childhood mementos begins to feel like Groundhog Day, I sometimes set out for a walk or a drive around the streets of the former country-town-now-suburb that surrounds the house. During these outings I scan the faces of passersby for signs of recognition, but having been gone almost thirty-five years, pretty much everyone’s a stranger now.
The evening before last, while driving Mum’s car slowly along a side street, I spotted a familiar-looking face. An old, bearded fellow being towed along by a stocky English bulldog gazed with interest at the car as I approached from the opposite direction. Since he was staring fixedly at me, I raised a wave. Wide-eyed, he stopped on the sidewalk, half-waved in response, then turned to stare after the car as I passed by. A bit mystified, I checked that I was still driving on the proper side of the road and, finding that I was, carried on towards home.
The following morning while getting ready to leave for the hospital, I was startled to see the same old bloke advancing across the front yard, the bulldog leading the way. Suddenly I knew who this was: Eros is a local, a former patient of my dad’s, and a longtime friend to both parents, whom I’d been woefully slow to recognize, not having seen him in years. After re-introductions, Eros asked after Mum, having heard that she’d had a stroke, then explained why he’d looked so surprised the night before. “Drivin’ yer mum’s car, with the gray hair an’ the glasses … mate, ya looked so much like yer old man, I thought I’d seen a ghost!” In a way, perhaps he had. It was kind of comforting; I suppose we all turn into our parents in the end.
I also suppose that to some extent, “home” will always be where your mother is. This trip, which I can’t help but imagine might be my last back to Australia to visit a living parent, has brought about a lot of contemplation. Specifically, I’ve found myself thinking about the decisions we make when we reach those forks in the road that demand important choices—the consequences of which are rarely obvious at the time, but become profoundly so in hindsight. I learned recently that the word “decision” comes from the Latin word, decidere, which means “to cut away from”—like a boat leaving its mooring, or a child leaving home. I have never regretted the decision to leave Australia and follow a Louisiana girl into a life rich with new experiences, creative challenges, a nurturing community and, yes, a new home. But of course, when you cut away from your mooring, good things are inevitably left behind. The trick, I think, is to accept this inevitability without regret, to honor and cherish what came before, and all the while, to keep looking forward.
—James Fox-Smith, publisher
