Caesar Salad

What my daughter learned - and what I unlearned - about my hometown this weekend. TW: Suicide

Besides a very short trip last fall, I genuinely can’t remember the last time I actually visited my hometown. And that’s for a few reasons. One being that my parents no longer live there, so if I want to go, I have to bang on the door of an old classmate to let me sleep on their couch and honestly I feel too old and self-conscious to be doing that. Another reason being, well, the baggage. 

My hometown is like a ghost, haunting my memories with past relationships that ended weird, or the ghosts of friends and peers whose lives ended in the ways we become too familiar with in rural Appalachia - overdose, drunk driving, suicide. Then there are the ghosts of businesses closed, buildings broken down, and the general burden of economic downturn - a small town? In this economy? I had this feeling that I didn’t know it there anymore, and it no longer knew me. 

But this Fourth of July, I actually had a reason to visit, and a place to stay. (Yes, it was at an old classmate’s house, but she’s also a lifelong friend so I felt okay about it. Thanks again, Katie.) I brought my fiancé, Nick, and my eight-year-old daughter, Winona. Both had been there the last trip, which consisted of a car tour me pointing out places I used to go, things I used to do. This time, we got out of the car. 

Winona got to go tubing on the Ohio River, which she loved so much it actually made me cry. Nick got to know my high school friends and see the inner workings of the best biker bar in town - including townies, arm wrestling competitions, and having a mere $7.50 bar tab at the end of the night. Shout out to Hogg Haven: we loved you, if only for a night. We saw my best friend and her husband’s incredible manufacturing shop where Winona learned how to use a sewing machine… and a mini blow torch. 

I had been eagerly waiting for my chance to take my family to Remo’s Hotdogs, which is literally a shack in the middle of town that serves three things: hot dogs, potato chips, and soda. As we made our way over, Winona asked me a question that stopped me in my tracks: “Do they have Caesar salad?” Do they… does Remo’s have Caesar salad? Friend, I don’t remember Remo offering any kind of vegetable beyond a pickle and an onion. And the aforementioned potato chip. 

Lucky for her, and not for me, Remo’s was closed. So we ventured to a bar that did actually have a Caesar salad. They also still had their iconic fried mushrooms, which we all enjoyed very much. But the question of the salad itself spoke to me, saying that she is growing up in a totally different environment than me, with different expectations, privileges, and ideologies. And yes, that has been intentional on my behalf. I want her to know more and have more than I could even imagine. But. 

But, also. I want her to know what I know, too.

She met the river I grew up on. She swapped phone numbers with my best friend’s daughter, who gave her her first makeover (glitter and mascara included). She ate fried mushrooms at a table with my old roommate, Sarah, who I’ve known and loved as a sister since I was eight. She walked along Second Avenue and spent time with Katie’s parents who gave me a second home in high school. 

My lore of my hometown is made up of many things: some nostalgia for the parts of youth that stayed shiny, and shame for the parts that still hurt to think about. Some tainted memories of when the opioid crisis was just taking root as we were coming of age.

(It’s worth mentioning that I had just finished reading Demon Copperhead before this trip, which had cast a specific shadow over my emotional state and my connection to “back home.”)

I let these parts define my memory for two decades. I’m so glad I went back so I could see beyond that lore and appreciate the unbreakable bonds with the people I grew up with, that still exist without much effort. I feel known there, without having to try to be. I speak more comfortably, I listen better, and I feel deeply understood. Ultimately, I feel grateful to still be accepted in a place that I rejected for so long.

Maybe I really needed to spend those 20 years avoiding southern Ohio in order to heal the parts that kept me from returning. I always said I’d never go back, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t already daydreaming of my next visit home.