Back in the D

When I moved back here, it seemed like a novelty. I thought, "Yeah, sure. I'll move back home, see some of the old stomping grounds, enjoy living near the folks, work at the local paper, blah blah." I didn't realize the impact it would have on me. I now understand why Scarlett was so worked up about Tara. There's something special about being near the place where you grew up.

All of that hit me after just a few days on the new job.

A colleague and I were talking about where we grew up in Detroit. First, we learned we were baptized at the same church -- St. Francis d'Assisi (pictured above) on Wesson. He and his brothers attended the school there. So did my brother and I, as did my dad and his siblings. And my grandpa was the janitor.

Then my colleague said he was born on 31st, where I spent my first months as a baby. His busia ("grandma" in Polish) lived on 31st. So did my grandparents. In fact, we learned that we (although 20 years apart) spent many of our childhood weekends (him visiting his grandma and me visiting my grandparents) on the same block in Detroit.

Crazy.

On assignment one day, I drove past my old school (which doesn't exist as a school anymore, but the church does). The block doesn't look the same (many surrounding houses and buildings have been knocked down or are standing but burned out), but a flood of memories washed over me. I couldn't help but smile.

So it's real. I'm back in my old hometown, covering issues that impact neighborhoods and blocks where I used to live, where my mom went to school, where my dad hung out. I pass the grocery store where I sometimes shopped with my grandpa (where I was frickin' amazed by the pig ears --whole -- you could buy in the meat section). Everyday on my way into work, I ride past 31st. I can't believe it.

I used to say I'd never move back here, but I did. I had to.

And something just feels right.