Who says that you can’t go home again?

Jim Goldsworthy, Columnist

I like to visit the past, but don’t choose to live in it the way some folks do.

When you dwell too much on the past, not only do you ignore the present, but you also forsake the future ... and all three provided me with ample reason to give thanks on Thanksgiving Day.

I went to the country place that for decades was my second home. Frank and Mary Calemine owned it, and they were my second parents, as well as my own parents’ best friends.

Their daughter Carole remains my sister in every way but bloodline, and she and her husband Lenny own the place now. They invited me once more for Thanksgiving and are far more than friends and high school classmates.

When I visit them, I always walk over to the pond where Frank and I used to fish. I usually take my rod and reel to see if anything out there feels like nibbling, but Thanksgiving wasn’t a day for that.

Rather, it was a time to — among other things — meander around, taking in the clean air and the sky and the hills and fields where I began to learn about the Lord’s masterwork that we call Nature.

I’d been away from there for many years before returning a few Thanksgivings ago, taking a car ride on the back roads through the woods with Carole’s kids, Anne and Anthony, and Anne’s soon-to-be-husband Brian.

It was like I never left. When I walked down to the place where I’d killed my biggest buck, it was like I’d been there yesterday.

This Thanksgiving, a younger hunter shot one up on the hill, and I rode up to see it with Anthony and Lenny’s son Mark.

Deer hunting isn’t like it used to be. The guy had taken this one at 195 yards from the comfort of a blind that has a stove, bunks and a comfortable place to sit while watching the field below. It’s located beside a privy.

He fetched the deer with a four-wheeler that tows a wagon. We used to do it the hard way: dragging, sweating and occasionally muttering words that our mothers wouldn’t have liked.

Back at the house, we discussed the usual things that young men, old men and not-so-old men from these parts talk about: women, kids, hunting, fishing, the weather, the Pittsburgh Steelers and the West Virginia Mountaineers, and the fact that none of us could in any respect be thought of as politically correct.

It wasn’t what we used to call proper deer-season weather: gray and a bit gloomy, like you’d expect for late November, but not as cold. By Thanksgiving, we liked to have some snow on the ground ... makes them easier to see, for one thing.

Snow has become one of my less-favorite things. Once, though, I loved to traipse around in the woods when it was snowing, not going in until I was almost dead on my feet. I’d reverted to the little kid I used to be, the one who didn’t want to come in from playing ball to eat supper. It helped that there was a warm cabin, where my friends, a shower, a hot meal, a snort or two of whiskey, a cigar and a soft bed awaited.

One of my favorite places to travel back in time is a field near the crest of the hill, where you can look toward the setting sun and see seven different ridgelines.

Ernie Helsley and I sat at the top of that field waiting in vain for a deer to come out, then unloaded our rifles to get back in the car and ride down to the cabin. When we stood up and turned around, we discovered that the biggest buck either of us had ever seen was standing 10 feet away, watching us.

I once emerged from of the woods at the end of the day’s last hunt to find Basil Martin standing alone at the edge of a pine grove.

He reached into his coat and brought out an unopened half-pint of ginger brandy that we shared, and we talked about how good life was at that particular moment.

Mostly, we just listened to the hissing of the falling snow — the only sound we could hear as the day darkened slowly, and without so much as a breeze, into night.

Thanksgiving dinner 2009 was everything it should have been: a warm house with folks of all ages scattered everywhere and a table covered with turkey, ham, mashed and sweet potatoes, pies and cakes.

There was a heartfelt word of thanks to the Lord for the bounty of family, friends and food that He has given us ... as well as a prayer that those who are less-fortunate may someday be blessed the way we have been.

Eleven grownups sat at the Big People’s Table in the dining room.

Eight youngsters surrounded the Little People’s Table in the next room, which is lined on three sides with windows that provide a grand view of the fields and hills. It’s a particularly fine spot on those days when the weather makes you glad to be sitting snugly inside, with no particular place to go.

Having visited the past and returned to the present, I watched from that room as the future mounted a determined after-dinner assault against a steep dirt bank that climbs toward the woods behind the house.

I once tested that dirt bank myself, and I can tell you it’s not so much dirt as it is dirt dust, and a bit of rain turns it into something like a mixture of sand and mud.

The little ones were determined to make it to the top — but, like I found out so many years ago, it was just out of reach.

But that is how it should be. Once you’ve gotten to the top, where else is there to go?

Those little mudrats took turns attacking that hill for half an hour or more and got themselves and their clothes gloriously filthy; one even took his shoes and socks off in an attempt to gain better traction. Surely, the washers and dryers worked overtime that night.

My silent prayer was that they would apply the same determination to the rest of their lives’ work, and that they’d have just as much fun doing it.

I believe it will happen that way. They come from good stock.