Last month I described the jumble of emotions that I experienced on first arriving in Henrietta after 60 years away. They began to fall into place and deepen when I saw the name "Boddy" on the paving stone honoring the family's contribution to the restoration of the old jail.

The feelings really started to intensify with the next stop: the public library in which I had spent so many hours, from which I had taken home and read seemingly every volume appropriate to my age and reading level, where I earned multiple bookworm pins for summer reading (five books per pin). I found it a block off the town square, much expanded since my time in Henrietta. It seemed to have doubled in size and now included an entire room devoted to Texana. I spent some time browsing through books on Texas history, culture, and food. I could easily have spent the rest of the day examining volumes on historic hotels, the many beautiful county courthouses in the state, and stories of famous and infamous Texans.

But there was still much to see. I was unable to locate the first house we lived in, the large old structure that didn't have central air conditioning but did contain a swamp cooler (as described in one of the earlier chapters of this memoir) and boasted the old pecan tree that was still a prodigious producer of nuts. But I did know how to find Trinity Episcopal Church and thus our second house since it had been built in back of the church.

So we proceeded east on Gilbert Street and soon arrived and parked. The façade was immediately recognizable, appearing not to have been altered in the intervening years. The church was closed, so I wasn't able to view the interior or speak to anyone who might have information about the parish today.

We walked around back and abruptly, there was the house. I was greatly surprised as I had remembered it being across a vacant field. But in fact only a short sidewalk connected the house to the church. We went around to the front and for the first time, a strong mixture of memory and emotion washed through me. As with the church, the outside of the house was unchanged. Here was the porch where I spent summer afternoons reading (and once feared I had seriously injured my then-baby brother). There were the decorative shutters fastened to the wall on either side of the windows. One tree that I couldn't remember whether it had been there in our time. I took photos and had my partner take some of me, but mostly I just gazed at the house as memories flooded over me.

From there it was one jolt after another. At the end of the block was the field where we caught horny toads and "fished" for crawdads. On a nearby corner, the Dairy Queen I would visit for ice cream and cokes (in Texas "coke" is the term for any soft drink). And on one side the highway that led to Dallas in one direction and Wichita Falls in the other.

On the way back to the car, while looking over the old neighborhood and especially noting the scattering of native plants, we encountered a friendly letter carrier delivering the mail. She was interested to hear that I had lived on that block—I pointed out the house—so many years before. She was not originally from Henrietta, but came from a nearby town even smaller. We allowed as how it was a good place for a kid to grow up, at least in part.

We returned to the car and proceeded to my elementary school where I noted the biggest change since my time there. The high school had been across the parking lot that we had to cross to the cafeteria. It was now sharing a building with the elementary school and the structure presented a façade that was at least two continuous blocks long. It was gratifying to see the stadium where I spent many Friday nights cheering on the Henrietta Bearcats. It appeared to have been renovated and enlarged as it now sported a running track around the football field.

We drove a little farther and stumbled upon an entirely new development of large and rather fancy houses tucked in behind the campus. They would not be out of place in a suburb of Dallas.

It was getting to be time to head back to Big D but before our departure, there was one final stop. We drove back through town and arrived at Clay County Memorial Hospital where my brother was born in July 1963. Like most of the other significant locations in Henrietta, it had apparently remained unchanged over the decades since we resided in the town. I shot a photo, then we hit the road back to Dallas.

We took the alternate route that led us to I-35, where we had lunch in Gainesville (the first "big" town in Texas upon crossing the Red River from Oklahoma). The DFW urban sprawl now extends all the way to the river and beyond, so the voyage back was slower even though the distance was slightly shorter.

I had time along the way to reflect on the experience of revisiting the place that had had such an impact on me as a child. I'm still reflecting now several months later. It was a remarkable and unsurprisingly emotional experience and I'm very glad I made that sentimental journey.