Finding Faith ... in maybe going home again?

In 1987, my mom moved her and I to a small town about 30 minutes south of our family hometown in Crookston, Minn.

Actually, we moved to Fertile, Minn., in the spring of 1987 and for the last couple of months of my sixth grade school year, I would ride with her the half hour into Crookston to complete the school year there. And then I had the summer of 1987 to adjust to the idea of going to school in a new place, and a place that was in my mind much smaller than where I had come. Looking back now, with the advantage of 30 years of growth, the difference in sizes in towns and schools wasn't immense, but try telling that to an 12 year old.

Not going to lie here: The first couple of years was a hard adjustment. Nearly all of the kids in my class had gone to school their entire lives together, all the way back to kindergarten. And then there was the socioeconomic barrier of me coming from poverty and much of the kids in my school being of middle income bracket or higher.

I did find solace in the fact that there were a few other kids like me: The "Other Side of the Trackers" as I like to call them nowadays. And we formed a roaming band of friendship that sort of inculcated us from the perceived picket white fences world into which we were thrust.

It didn't help that I had several other strikes going against me too. First, I was an introverted, average height pudgy kid, who had never really given much thought too school. In my elementary grades, school was more a place to go to during the day when my mother was at work, than it was a ticket out of where I was. (And I never did really grasp this until much later in high school when graduation started looming in the not-to-distant future.)

And then there was a house fire in the winter of my ninth grade year in which my mother and I lost all of our earthly belongings. At that point, the only thing I had from my childhood was the few belongings that happened to be housed in my locker at school.

And there numerous more obstacles that arouse as I meandered my way through this new town, new school and new life.

Looking back, I can tell you that I was a kid in a daze, that careened from one day to the next. And my life without my knowing it then, was all about survival. Survival of my fragile self identity and what was left of psyche. It's taken me years to come to grips with those early years in life.

So, given the less-than-stellar experience of moving to Fertile, once I packed my bags in the fall of 1992 to head to Bemidji State University some 75 miles or so to the east, I essentially checked out of the town for good I thought. (I feel it's imperative to note here that I didn't hold any ill will to the people whom I went to school with or the folks of the town, but no one at that time knew how much I was struggling inside.)

Once at college, I went back to Fertile for the summer after my freshmen year of college, and then very sporadically ever since. I wanted out and out for good. I couldn't see anything there for me.

Finally, after I graduated college, my first wife and I moved back briefly for a few short months, but realized that the upstart newspaper we had started wasn't going to support our new family. We packed up after a few months and headed back to Bemidji, where I had gone to college.

And then that was it, really. It didn't help that my mother had moved away from Fertile a few years after my high school graduation. And so all of a sudden, I didn't have much reason to ever go back. And there was a good decade in my 30s where I might have visited two or three times total.

But then several years ago, I took a couple of our kids back to Fertile to visit the Polk County Fair, the cultural and entertainment pinnacle of Fertile's year. It's hard to describe the fair and its impact on this small town, but suffice it to say, that every kid growing up in Fertile lives for the five days of the year that the fair is in town.

On that trip, I reconnected with a handful of people whom I had attended high school with, and got to spend an evening with my former in laws, who welcomed me home with open arms. And on the drive home that evening, with happy and contented kids sawing logs in the back seat, I started to understand some of the beauty and charm of Fertile. To be certain, I still felt very much the outsider even 30 years later, but I could for brief moments see what it was that so many people I went to school with loved and what drew so many of them back to live there.

In years since, we've made it back to that fair several more times. It's been a different group makeup each time, sometimes just me and the boys, sometimes me and several of the kids, and last year even my wife was able to join us.

And I will admit that my heart is softening up toward the town from which I graduated, and spent six years of my life. I see the lure of small town living, and I am grateful for the rekindled friendships that I've been establishing in the last couple of years. Sure, it's hard to make time to rebuild a relationship with with a pseudo-hometown that I hadn't claimed for most of life, but I am trying.

I am bummed that we were not able to attend the fair again this year because of the pandemic. I would have loved to have picked up with visits where we left off from last year's fair. But, I guess that will have to wait until next summer.

Meanwhile, I recognize that I am feeling an emotional tug from Fertile that I hadn't had all of my life, and that feels good. I especially noticed this yesterday, when a nearby newspaper featured Fertile in an article. The piece was just about how "nice" Fertile is, and described some of its quaint charms. After reading the piece, I realized I do have a fondness for the city that I wouldn't have been able to identify 20, 10 or even five years ago. But today, it does make me wonder if the old saying was incorrect, and if you actually can go home again?

And that is why today, I am finding faith in wondering if you really can go home again?