On Hemingway, Gandalf and the MSB: A trip
- Mike Dewey: Life Lines
- May 31, 2025
- 675
When sleep so often eluded me in North Carolina, I used to calm my mind by revisiting the eight places I’d lived in my hometown.
Now that I’m back, I’m thinking of actually doing it.
But like the Lion in “The Wizard of Oz,” I want someone to talk me out of it because, let’s face it, there’s a lot of risk involved.
I’ve gone on Zillow, an online real estate site, to do some clandestine research, so I know they were built between 1890 and 1959 and that all are currently occupied. I’m aware of their market value, their tax evaluations and their school districts.
It’s a fascinating rabbit hole, filled with photos and maps, an internet blend of “The Matrix” and “Fantastic Voyage,” with a little bit of Hobbit wisdom that always makes me stop and think.
“We are plain, quiet folks,” says Bilbo Baggins, “and have no use for adventures. Nasty disturbing things. Make you late for dinner!”
I first became aware of Tolkien’s Middle Earth on an overnight visit to Wittenberg University in spring 1973 when I was ostensibly trying to select which college to attend in the fall.
Having already been accepted for admission — as was the case with Miami University and Ohio Wesleyan — I believed a series of in-person visits (without my parents) was the best way to decide.
I had no way of knowing, of course, that the entire academic applecart was about to be upended when the University of Notre Dame — a total long-shot pipedream — emerged with an offer I couldn’t refuse, or at least the one Mom and Dad preferred.
By then I just wanted the whole thing to be over. When you live with two college professors, brilliant and kind and wise, you agree.
Four years later I returned to my hometown and, armed with a Bachelor of Arts degree, I went out in search of gainful employment. As an English major, however, there was not a lot of opportunity for someone who’d studied Shakespeare and Homer, could speak for hours on John Updike’s masterful use of language and, when necessary, could quote Hemingway almost at will.
“That was what you did,” I’d say to strangers in a bar. “You died. You did not know what it was about. You never had time to learn.”
If it was a woman I was speaking with, I’d always pause for effect, hoping for a glimmer of recognition in her eyes, dreaming huge.
“They threw you in and told you the rules,” I’d continue, on a roll, “and the first time they caught you off base, they killed you … You could count on that. Stay around and they would kill you.”
It was at that point she’d usually reach for the bowl of complimentary peanuts, and I’d wander back to the jukebox, where I’d deposit a dime and play a song by the Michael Stanley Band.
That was a strange fall, living in the house I’d grown up in, working for a landscaping operation, a demanding job that lasted only three days, owing to the fact I tore a tendon in my right forearm, an injury sustained while wrestling with shrubbery.
The lady doctor prescribed Valium, and I listened to Pink Floyd.
A lot of Pink Floyd …
By then I’d been hired to cover high school football games, proving my English degree did indeed carry some value, though it was a shock to my system when, on that first Friday night, the marching band struck up the Notre Dame “Victory March.”
I’d long run out of Valium, so I knew I wasn’t hallucinating.
Which brings us back to the trip I’ve been scouting all year.
Seven of my eight former residences are within the city limits, meaning it’s feasible to do the bulk of the journey on foot, but I’m not exactly sure that’s the correct course of action. My wife’s car offers comfort and good music, plus the added virtue of anonymity. I mean I have no idea how I’ll be received at these places, so the reality of walking in plain sight is a little problematic.
But that’s the thing. How would you feel if, out of the blue, it was your door I knocked on, disrupting an otherwise ordinary morning?
It’s possible, though highly unlikely, I might know someone who lives in one of my old haunts, but I’ve been gone for so long.
A generation has passed, even as another one has arrived, leaving me only my pleasant personality to deal with any awkwardness.
As in most things in this life, the best course is to tell the truth.
“Hi,” I see myself saying with a smile, “I used to live here a long time ago. I was hoping that you wouldn’t mind if I came in, maybe took a look around. You could be with me every step, obviously.”
I don’t know. These are such divisive times that no one trusts anybody.
Gone are the days when strangers felt no fear when asking for help.
I’ve always remembered Gandalf, who, at the beginning of “The Hobbit,” says, “I am looking for someone to share an adventure.”
Visiting eight houses in a single day would certainly qualify as one.
Mike Dewey can be reached at Carolinamiked@aol.com or 1317 Troy Road, Ashland, OH 44805. He invites you to join him on his Facebook page, where Tolkien’s trilogy remains a literary masterpiece.