The Question of Home

Driving down I-57 last week from Chicago, I became strangely emotional.  I was headed to a place that was part of my life for 47 years -- a place quite literally woven into my DNA, and I was likely going for the last time.  This trip had weighed on me for weeks, and now it was here.  I wasn’t ready, not even close. 

I’ve never had a good answer to the question: “where are you from?”

I was born in Kankakee, a town about an hour south of Chicago, moved to Florida when I was nearly ten, went to school first in St. Augustine – then in Jacksonville (while living in St. Augustine), attended college in Tennessee, then came back to St. Augustine – got married, then moved to Tallahassee.  I am a Floridian, I've lived in Tallahassee longer than anyplace, but I moved here as an adult, and I am not of Tallahassee in any real way. I often answer the question by saying I'm a bit of a mutt. 

For me, each trip back to Kankakee is like entering a time warp.   A once thriving, midwestern blue-collar factory town feels to me frozen in about 1985, roughly the time the long promised middle-class prosperity of industrial rust belt America largely disappeared.  Jobs and people went away, and what was left stagnated, then atrophied.  In my childhood, there was a bumper sticker that you’d see around town: “Don’t turn the lights off, I am still here,” but even many of those people eventually moved, or just died.

Kankakee on a paper isn’t the kind of place many feel sentimental about. Charitably, one might describe it as a bit rough around the edges -- though in reality, it is just rough.  Even in her better days, it was a hard-scrabble place, where tough guys did tough work.  But its economy was highly dependent (arguably completely dependent) on manufacturing and industrial work, so when those jobs moved south or overseas, like a lot of midwestern towns, the city really took it on the chin.  A once proud place fell so low it became a joke – a literal joke.  After being named the worst place in America to live in 1999, David Letterman as a joke sent the town two gazebos, so Kankakee would at least be the town of two gazebos.  The bit was funny, but the joke stung, and fair or unfair, it left a mark.

Unfortunately, the Letterman joke, and the image of “worst” stuck – and has proved hard to shake.  In fairness, the data about the town isn’t great: Kankakee’s population is down 20% from when we moved in the mid-80s, median household income is barely half of the statewide average, nearly 30% of residents live below the poverty line, and the violent crime rate is 3x the national average.   The county ranks 88^th out of 102 in Illinois in health outcomes, and both opioid abuse and deaths from drug abuse numbers are substantially higher than the national average – numbers likely even higher within the City of Kankakee.  Driving around town, all my wife could comment on was the number of bars, seemingly one on every corner.   This is not a place that, on a surface level, conveys much sense of hope.   If all you knew about the town was stuff learned in a quick google search, odds are high you aren’t getting off the interstate, and if you do get off, you are locking the car doors until you get back on.

The landmarks of my youth are still there – the places I went to school, the church we called home, the houses we lived in, the YMCA where I played basketball, the golf course where I learned to play, the parks where we played, and of course, the Dairy Queen whose opening each year signaled the start of spring.  They are all a little more worn, but every old landmark is still there, largely – if not completely unchanged.  There are many street corners in town that if you closed your eyes in 1986 and opened them in 2022, other than more modern cars, and sadly, fewer open stores, nothing would really be different.   I remember a window of time between a trip I made after going to the Obama HQ in Chicago in 2008, and a trip I made in 2017, where the same street light post was bent over in the same way – unfixed for a decade (or more).  

One other landmark stood the test of time:  1346 Blatt Blvd.  

The reason why I was there was the same reason I had been coming back for the 37 years since we moved: a single-story brown brick house on Blatt Blvd in neighboring Bradley, the home in the town my grandparents bought in the 50s – the same home my grandmother lived in until her death this year.  

Throughout the 47 years of my life, there was one true and absolute constant:  Marge Ryan, my grandmother, lived in that house, a house that was literally a direct line back to my childhood.

Other than a few pieces of furniture and modernized TVs, the house looked just as it did in my first memories.  Much of the furniture remained unchanged, the stove dated back to somewhere around my birth, and on this trip, just like every other trip since my earliest days as a child, the toys of my youth were on the floor in the basement, waiting for my return.  

We were there as a family to say our final goodbyes to her, to that house, and in many ways, a big chunk of our collective lives.  She was the last of a family to call the Kankakee “metroplex” home, the last string tying me to the town of my birth.

My grandmother was a remarkable lady.  She was the first in her family to leave the farm, first in her family to seek advanced schooling, and later, the first woman in her family to have a career of her own outside the home or farm, and eventually, the first to send kids to college.  At the age of 18, this girl of Cabery, IL – population 300 – started a career in nursing, a career that between actual work, and later volunteering, spanned 80 years.  80 years -- it is hard to wrap my head around that.

My grandfather grew up quite poor, the son of a railroad worker, Papa helped support the family as part of a band in his youth, going on himself to join the railroad – then serve in Iran during WWII, before spending a career as an engineer for the Illinois Central railroad, who for a while piloted the famous City of New Orleans train, memorialized in a song that gave Kankakee a little fame.  They were the quintessential Greatest Generation couple.

They were a two-income family at a time when those weren’t really a thing.  They bought a house and put two kids through college, something my mother often notes wasn't an option for her or her brother -- they were going, and they were finishing.  It isn't lost on me that these two, from their humble beginnings, ended up with a grandson who worked for a President, thus in their cases, proving true the basic promise of America.  

I am fortunate to be old enough to have real memories of my grandfather.  He was a big man, in more ways than one, and other than some competition from his dog, I benefited greatly from being his first grandkid. Once he snuck me on the train for a day, which for a six-year-old growing up in a train town, might have been the coolest thing any kid ever go to do in the history of time (and I am sure completely illegal).  But not long after that momentous day, the cigars he smoked caught up with him, and we lost him to cancer.  My grandmother, then 61 in 1981, and married for 39 years, was a widow.  It was the first death I had to process as a kid.

The next eight years were a whirlwind of change for our family.  We moved to Florida, my parents got divorced, my mother re-married (to an amazing and wonderful man), followed by her brother, my only Uncle, Bob Ryan, contracting, then dying from AIDS.   Staring at 70, a widower in Bradley, IL with her family largely in Florida, and having faced the horror of burying her own child, no one would have blamed her for feeling sorry for herself.   But giving up wasn’t in her nature – and she lived another 32 years, virtually all of it productively and independently - and over those next 32 years, periodically, I would show up in town. 

It was time for one more trip.  Nana passed away in January, but to give everyone in the family time to make the trip, the service was put off until late June.  I planned a week up there to pitch in cleaning the house.  If Kankakee was a time warp, 1346 Blatt Blvd was a time capsule.  It was already of a different era when I was a kid, but time in that house just stopped when my Papa died in 1981.   As an example, when I was there in 2017, Nana asked me to get something down off a shelf in the garage.  When I got on the ladder, I found on a bundle of license plates covered in literally inches of dust.  Turns out my grandfather had saved every license plate from his life and stuck them up on that shelf.  It was as much of a surprise to her as it was to me.

The house was a memorial to their life together, and in many ways, a memorial to him.  The basement – a 1960s/70s version of a mancave, other than being occasionally dusted, was completely unchanged.  Bottles of liquor remained in their 1980 condition.  Reel to reel music tapes on a shelf, and a record player sat behind the bar. Various TVs from different eras littered the floor, and taking up nearly one wall, a display my grandparents had made to memorialize their trip around the world, including a world map plotting all their flights, all their bag tags and boarding passes, post cards from foreign places in foreign times, currency, etc.  I believe my passion for travel to exotic places started by studying that map as a child and looking at all their pictures.

My grandparents were both children impacted deeply by The Depression, and like many of that era, they threw away very little -- you never know when you might need a mason jar – or a hundred mason jars.  For example, they kept every manual from every appliance they bought, including long obsolete things, such as the “Warm Morning Incinerator” in the basement, whatever the heck that is.  

They had unused gifts on random shelves, newspapers from notable dates stuck in rafters and in closets, and I suspect every birthday or holiday card they ever received.  Nana kept all Papa’s railroad logs, every camera he ever owned – as well as slides, slide machines, and dark room materials.  And the house was littered with newspaper clippings, photos, and countless trinkets from a lifetime of travel to places that their parents likely couldn’t have even dreamed of.   I am 100% confident there was some priceless thing we took to Goodwill, but the amount of stuff in that house was too overwhelming to properly process.

Yet despite its dated condition, and general lack of most modern conveniences, there was always something soothing about going to that house.  It was a constant in a fast-paced life, a comfortable place of refuge, a throwback to a simpler era, and as I’ve come to realize as I got older, a guidepost on my own search for home.

On a trip to see her in 2017, I put my Nana in the car, and we spend the day driving.  I wanted to hear her stories, so we just drove, driving to Cabery, to the church where she was married, as well as my great grandmother’s house, another place that is but a flickering memory of my childhood.  We visited the graves of Nana’s grandparents, and the farms of her sisters.   We drove out to her old golf course, past the homes and schools of my childhood, and dropped in on my parent’s old next-door neighbor.  What started out as a trip to get her out of the house and talking, turned into a trip that helped me make sense of my own life.  As a dear friend told me that night over text, at a certain point in life, you have to go back to the beginning to understand your own journey.  

On this trip, I began to understand there was a lot more of that town in me than I realized.   Even though I love the state I call home, the truth is for a lot of reasons, I never really adjusted to the culture as a kid after we moved.  Maybe it was the sentimental thing of close childhood friends I’ve long since lost, or the memories of my father before we moved, or the fact I’ve never really gotten over the fact AIDS stole my only Uncle from me as a kid, but for whatever the reason, for all its rust, there is something about the town.   

For most of my high school, college, and even early adult years, in the back of my mind, I kind of thought I would go back. Maybe, I thought, maybe I could be a part of change, part of a restoring the place I remembered as a kid.  But now with my lone tie to the community gone, so was any reason I ever had for going back.  Whether I wanted to or not -- and I didn't, I was now facing, as a good friend of mine called it, that feeling of finality.

I knew that besides making peace with Nana’s passing, I needed to make peace with my relationship with the community. I walked around the old neighborhood and visited parks.  I went and played golf at the course I grew up at – birdieing the 5th hole that drove me nuts when I was a junior player -- and birdieing the bizarre "island fairway" 17th hole that drove my Dad nuts, and even got out to the course where my Nana played – learning, contrary to my childhood understanding, she played at a truly stout golf course, and after talking to a long time staffer, surprising to me and most who knew her, that she was apparently a rather fierce competitor in the ladies’ league.   

We ordered pizza from the childhood pizza place (this was a mistake), ordered lunch from Nana’s favorite sandwich shop, drove by my dad’s old office, went the places my older brother and sister took me to as a child, and visited my dad’s favorite old Dairy Queen – three times.  My phone is littered with pictures of things and places, weathered memories of both a childhood lived, and a lifetime coming back.   I would find myself getting emotional at the oddest times and places, as I felt a pressure to find that peace, even though I am still not quite sure I am making peace with.   

On my second to last night, we ended up at a new little brewery, located in a rough old building, down by the river.  Inside, the brewery was bright, an old spot reborn, and in it, a young bartender who was optimistic.  She said notwithstanding the admittedly very real problems in town, young people were bringing a new energy to the town, and as I drove around the next day, thinking of what she said, I started to see something new.  

I noticed the pride of a stubborn place showing up in yards that were well-kept, even in communities where the homes were in rough shape.   The city invested in new public spaces downtown, a farmers’ market on weekends, and even hung some of those outdoor party lights over side streets and took some other steps to make downtown look a little nicer.  There were new buildings at an old factory, more businesses downtown – not a lot, but more, and other signs of economic life.  South Beach it wasn’t, but maybe it wasn’t as stuck as I thought.  

Furthermore, thanks to the investment of a good friend of mine, there is a burgeoning solar industry taking shape, creating both predictable income streams for farmers, and jobs for the county’s blue-collar workforce.  Sure enough, looking up some stats, unemployment rates, while still higher than the national average, were significantly lower than a decade previous.    Despite the myriad of problems that remained, things didn’t just look better, they were in fact, objectively better.  The label of 1999 still stings, but it no longer applies.

That last full day felt a bit in slow motion.  We finished packing up the house to the best of our abilities, watching the time capsule of my youth turn slowly empty.   Nonetheless, treasures kept appearing – more from my grandfather’s collection of art from his time in Persia – my great uncle, who died in WWII, his service flag with 48 stars – and we even had our own little Antique Roadshow moment when we realized hidden behind a framed poster were signed photos from a well-regarded photographer – photos none of us had ever seen. 

After dinner, Nikole and I ended up back at that brewery, and eventually, a wine and whiskey bar in downtown – more signs of that youth-driven renewal.   It seems, maybe that is the town’s hope, not a return to industrial glory, but instead as something new – a gritty, yet uniquely authentic, affordable, and comfortably diverse place for younger people who can work remotely from Chicago, as well as a decent place to retire.  Just like so many of the once dying old mill towns of Western North Carolina, the old school nature of Kankakee has real appeal to many.  It did feel like things, albeit slowly, were pointing in a better direction, and for the first time in a long time, I could leave feeling better about Kankakee, even if I wasn't ready to let go myself.

The next morning, we said goodbye to Nana.  The preacher kicked off the service by noting that Nana had lived so long that she was alive from day one of the lives of everyone in that room, a remarkable testament to her longevity.   We all told our stories, went to lunch with distant cousins and old friends, and then drove by 1346 Blatt so I could walk through the house one last time before heading to the airport. 

Driving north, I thought back on the smart observation from the friend mentioned above – that at some point in life, you have to go back to understand your own journey – and what is true is so much of who I am points back to that house on Blatt Blvd, and the example of a lady who had her own career -- even when society told her that wasn’t her place – someone who was comfortable with who she was and could hold their own almost anywhere.   She loved a son who was gay, at a time when too often that wasn’t the case – and bounced back from the trauma of losing him.  She was tremendously resilient – living longer widowed than she was married – and she was married for a long time.  She was fiercely independent, quietly competitive, blunt yet supportive, and wonderfully adventurous in her own way (even if I still struggle seeing Marge Ryan in India or Thailand).  She didn’t march to the beat of a drummer – she was, in fact, the drummer.  

For me, celebrating her life was easy, even if saying goodbye is hard– she lived nearly 102 years, almost all of it with health and independence.  You can’t ask for anything more than that out of one life.

Yet at the same time, that peace I was hoping to find, the peace to leave the town behind proved elusive.  

Maybe one day, I'll go home again to make sense of that.  Maybe.

All along the southbound odyssey, the train pulls out at Kankakee, rolling along past houses, farms and fields, passing trains that have no name...  

Good night, America, how are you?  Say, don't you know me? I'm your native son.