First, a disclaimer: I like Fargo-Moorhead. I spent more than half of my life there. It was a great place to raise kids. I made some very good, close friends.

But imagine my surprise when I went back there last weekend and discovered a certain sense of unease with the place.

It was the first time I’d seen Fargo since January 2011, when I left for grad school in Missouri. The main purpose of the trip was for Karon to meet my younger son, the only member of my family she hadn’t yet been introduced to. It was great to see him and, in fact, I also had time to meet up with a lot of those good friends, some of whom I hadn’t actually seen in six years.

So why the unease?

It wasn’t that Fargo had changed radically. There were a few new buildings standing and an old one or two gone or abandoned. But all of the places I frequented were still there, as were most of the people I knew.

We stayed at the Motel 6 on 13th Avenue, which has been vastly cleaned up and improved since my days as a security guard, when my company patrolled the place (one night, some of my co-workers were at the motel when the cops had to mace somebody). One morning, I drove the few blocks to the McDonald’s near the Holiday Inn to get a Sausage McSkillet Burrito, a delicacy I love but which, for some reason, is not available at McDonald’s in Missouri. As I was driving the short distance west on 13th Avenue, I noticed a rather distinct, uncomfortable feeling. It took me a while to realize what it was.

My last two years in Fargo were, for a variety of reasons, somewhat difficult. Without getting too personal, I was in a difficult living situation and I had very little money. Between those two things, I woke up worrying virtually every morning.

Both situations have long since resolved themselves, but somehow, as I was driving a couple of blocks along 13th Avenue, I felt a gnawing worry. I had no idea what it was, at first. But being self-involved, I gave it a lot of thought and finally realized the problem. My last few years were so difficult, so emotionally draining, that the mere sight of places familiar during a troubled time brought back some long-buried and long-unnecessary feelings.

Of course, it was more than that, although the real problem was no less nebulous.

Fargo-Moorhead was the scene of some of my happiest moments and some of my greatest defeats. Such is the case of place you live for more than 24 years; life happens. I don’t dwell on either. To quote Al Stewart, “Well, I’m not the kind to live in the past/ the years run too short and the days too fast.” Still, I’ve always had a keen appreciation for the arc of my life.

And if our sufferings play a large role in making us what we are, I suffered enough to at least build a little character. My life in F-M was very good for most of the time, but those last few years were difficult ones. Difficult enough, in fact, that I realized the very sight of the city spurred what’s called a “semantic reaction.” It’s the first jolt that hits you when you see something familiar, the largely emotional reaction. It’s the nausea that hits you when you see something disgusting, or the elation you feel when you see something that reminds you of a peak experience. It can be subtle, as mine was, but it’s unmistakable.

But there are other unavoidable reasons for my disquiet. When you live in a place as long as I lived in F-M, you are no longer from the place; you are of the place. The local jokes, the local gossip, the people who make the news – and, if you’re in my business, the things you know that never make the local news but give color and texture to the stories you get paid to tell – are a large part of your life’s tapestry.

And when you come back, after you’ve left, there are places that are as familiar as your own face in the mirror, but that you no longer are of. You are a kind of dilettante, parachuting in for a look and maybe a lunch before you get back to your life.

In a way, it’s one of life’s little cruelties. I had lunch with a close friend, the kind of pal you have if you’re lucky: No matter how long since you’ve seen each other, it’s as though you last met the day before. But he and I talk only every few weeks now, rather than every day as it once was. Our friendship is the same, but its context is vastly different.

The thing that struck me most about my uneasiness was how unnecessary it was. My life is as close to perfect as it’s ever been. I live with a woman I love and who loves me, I’m doing interesting and useful work and that very work has put me on the cusp of a future I never could have dreamed of a few short years ago. The world truly is my oyster, something a lot of people my age couldn’t even imagine.

Yet, when I visit that foreign country called The Past, old associations crawl up my spine and knock gently on the back of my mind.

It was a great visit. Still and all, I was ready to come back to my current home and the life I now have.

It is true that you can’t go home again. But it’s not home’s fault. The discovery I made last weekend is that home remains, but the “you” you were when you lived there no longer exists. That’s sometimes a mixed blessing, but the alternative would be worse.

by Tom Pantera
Columnist