The only place to which I returned after many years was Old Tappan, New Jersey, which had been my childhood home for the first 4 years of my life. I remember many details of my life during those early years, including the sheep my father raised on his “hobby farm.” Aside from one little girl next door, there were no other children nearby, so an orphaned lamb — George — was my daily playmate. George wasn’t very good at anything, but then again, neither is a 3-year-old kid. We just hung out; near the pond, in the sheds, in the fields.

Here are Google Street view images of the house:

It looks old because it is; over a century old.

At the mailbox, my father hung a gear from the post as a kind of play on our last name: Geare:

And the result of that was a steady stream of out of towners who came to the front door asking the dates and times of the Rotary Club meetings.

We moved from there when I was 4, in 1952. “What will happen to George?” I asked. I knew father raised his sheep for slaughter, and I was concerned. I was assured that George would become the pet of my baby sitter, a kindly old lady down the road. I have never sought to verify or to deny this claim.

Forty years later, now living in Cumberland, Maryland, I had occasion to make a business trip to an address about 30 miles away from Old Tappan. That’s when a little bell went off in my head, and I decided to go back to the old homestead. The road map clearly indicated the location of Old Tappan, and I knew the street name where we had lived, but was clueless about how to actually find the house — if it still stood, at all.

And meanwhile, “Old” Tappan had become “New” Tappan given the decades of development since I was last there.

Even so, when I crossed the town line, I drove on some kind of homing sense, eventually driving by this:

Just above the roof peak, you’ll see a siren array. But back in my day, fire fighters were summoned by hammering on that white ring suspended from the red frame. My father was the fire chief, and also the mayor.

Seeing this encouraged me to think I was headed “the right way.”

After a few more intersections, there was an oddly familiar turn off, so I pulled left to take it.

And there was the house. Exactly as I remembered it.

I pulled into the driveway, stepped out of my car, approached the kitchen door, and knocked.

Nothing.

Nothing, that is, until I heard, very softly and very faintly, some soft noises around back. So I walked around back, and there were the sheep! Evidently quite content in a pen which connected to a shelter. Exactly the same as during my few years there.

I approached the fencing, folded my hands on the top rail, and looked at the sheep. They approached, as a flock, stood at the fence, and they looked at me.

So, yes, I did what you dear readers want to ask if I did.

“George?” I asked, quietly. There were a few gentle bleats in reply. I don’t talk sheep, so I don’t know what they were saying. But they were curious, gentle and unafraid of this stranger in their midst. It is reasonable to imagine that while George, himself, must be long gone, there could be some surviving family members. That was good enough, for me.

I turned and took my leave.

So: What was it “like?” It was like some kind of vivid dream, a teleportation back through time, a validation of remembered experience. A message that all was well, and that all would be well. Very comforting. And I also learned something about a kind of territorial imprinting which may occur at a very early age, and survive through adulthood, as a form of GPS which is embedded into our brains, somehow. I did drive directly to the house; no blind turns, no asking for directions. I can only believe that trips with Mother, when I was a wee one, were somehow embedded into my memory.

That’s my story.