It’s taken me nearly a month to process what happened at Christmas.

My wife Pam and I spent the last ten days of December in the small town in Kentucky where I had grown up over half a century ago.

We’d been back to Shelbyville many times since then, but never for that long. When our three sons were youngsters living at home, they made those trips with us, but now they’re all middle-aged and have families of their own, one in Baltimore, one in Chicago, and one in San Diego.

Given the distances and our sons’ various commitments, getting together with all of them, to say nothing of my siblings, nieces, and nephews still living in Kentucky---well, it wasn’t going to happen.

But it happened last month. Our San Diego son suggested it. My sister and her husband own a large farmhouse on the outskirts of Shelbyville which they sometimes make available to guests. “Maybe we could all stay at Libby’s and Hube’s place,” our son said.

And so we did. Or rather, they did. All three sons, three daughters-in-law, and six grandchildren, the eldest of whom was ten, traveled to Shelbyville and bunked in at Libby’s and Hube’s for nearly a week. Pam and I were with them most of the time, but mercifully, were given quieter quarters at night, at my brother’s place just up the hill from the farmhouse.

The astonishing thing to me was that all three of our sons wanted to do this. They had never disparaged Shelbyville, but neither had they ever asked to go there.

Their attitude changed, I think, when my brother’s 40-year-old daughter died last spring. Two of our sons and their families attended her funeral. Not only did their children make friends with their Shelbyville cousins, but our sons bonded with their extended family. And everyone felt intensely the fragility of human life and relationships.

“We’ve got to get together more often,” one son said, following the funeral. I figured that was sincerely meant but probably wouldn’t happen. I was wrong. It happened last month.

And it was glorious. There were minor differences due to varying expectations for the week, but everyone got along famously, so much so that our Baltimore son extended his stay for an extra day and Andy, our San Diego son, and his wife are considering relocating to Kentucky.

Andy says he wants to be nearer family. Well, yes, but I think there’s more to it---have you compared the cost of a house in San Diego to one in Kentucky?

I can’t remember when I’ve had a happier week. Mostly, it was being with the people I love, but there was more to it, something I can’t quite articulate.

Much has changed in Shelbyville since I left 50 years ago. The population has increased five-fold. Of the businesses on Main Street that I remember, only two remain. All the restaurants are different. Two new high schools have been built and the one I graduated from is now the Board of Education building. Some other family---I don’t know their names---lives in our house. Our church is still there, but most of the faces are different (even the ones of the people I know are different), and the pastor I remember is now just a photograph on the wall. And of course, my parents, grandparents, and dozens of others who loved me now lie beneath the sod in Grove Hill Cemetery.

For all that, though, I had an overwhelming sense of going home. Loving arms welcomed me back, and memories tumbled through my mind like a rushing flood.

Since leaving Shelbyville, I’ve lived in nine other towns and cities and enjoyed all of them. When I retired in 2011, my wife and I returned to the Eastern Shore, where we had spent the 1990s, because most of our friends are here.

We don’t regret that decision. We love living in Baldwin County. But no other place, however enticing its charms, will ever replace for me the rolling hills of Shelby County, Kentucky, and no other friends, however dear, will compare to the loved ones, living and dead, who embraced me there.

You can go home again, and I’m so glad I did. 

Richard H. Schmidt is a retired Episcopal priest, editor and author who lives in Fairhope. He can be reached at courier@gulfcoastnewspapers.com.