Last week I flew back to Phoenix for my nephew Daniel’s Baptism. I didn’t get much sleep the night before I left and that was probably just as well. It meant I was too tired to be nervous about flying only days after the first anniversary of 9/11. Fewer people fly since 9/11, which meant that there was no one beside me to be disturbed if I happened to snore.

I scored a window seat, so I could survey the landscape as we made our decent over my native Arizona. They’ve just finished the late summer monsoon season, so there was fresh grass on the mountains that been scorched by the forest fires of this summer. There was even a little water in usually dry washes and river-beds that don’t usually have rivers in them. I noticed that instead of square sections, Arizona farms are disk shaped, due to the pivot sprinklers used to water crops in the desert.

When we came across Phoenix itself is when it hit me- that old saying about not being able to go home again. The reason you can’t go home again is because you can’t step in the same place in a river twice. The river is constantly moving and changing. Phoenix isn’t much like the western town I grew up in.

When I was a kid, we had a dirt road in my subdivision that they had to put oil on to keep the dust down. Across that road were horses and chickens. Today, Phoenix seems to be a vast expanse of concrete and winding freeways.

My folks picked me up and we left Sky Harbor International Airport and ventured out into the blinding sunlight and 104° heat. To my delight, my Mom bought tickets for my Dad and I to see the World Champion Diamondbacks play the Milwaukee Brewers that afternoon.

More evidence of Phoenix’s changes. As a kid we went to minor league games of the Phoenix Giants at a small stadium by the power plant. It smelled like soda and beer and sweat. Bank One Ballpark ("BOB") is more like the Mall of America, air conditioned and filled with shops, neon, and fast food outlets. Downtown used to be run-down, and nearly vacant. It used to be full of office workers, homeless people and police. Now it’s polished and "touristy," full of campy cowboy and southwestern statues and shops.

The D’Backs have changed Phoenix too. As I graduated from high school, Phoenix was reaching critical mass. Growing up, it was home to Indians, Mexicans, and people who moved there after WWII or in the late 60’s. But, much like America, it grew almost uncontrollably and it’s different ethnic groups, religions, incomes and political interests were beginning to do one of two things; either cause conflict, or water-down and lose any sense of cohesive identity. Having a winning pro baseball team gives Phonecians something to rally around. Like the terrorist attacks have united the Nation, baseball has united Phoenix.

By the way, Kurt Schilling graduated from my High School, brag, brag. (As if I knew him) He was a Senior when I was a Freshman and Shadow Mountain High School had 2,300 students. My older brother Bart said he sat behind him in Algebra. Bart said Kurt struggled in math.

Monday morning I went for a hike in the Phoenix Mountain Preserve near my parent’s house. I got up at six, witch wasn’t hard since that’s eight, central time. I hiked up the east face of Shadow Mountain so that I could look out over the city and watch the sun rise over the Superstition Mountains. A coyote crossed my path under a palo verde tree. Of course, minutes later, so did a pair of joggers and their black lab. Further along the trail I smelled the sweet aroma of sagebrush and creosote and noticed a jackrabbit scurry across an arroyo under a mighty saguaro. Of course, minutes later, I also caught wind of a city bus and saw a police helicopter scurry across the sky.

As I flew back into Omaha, I noticed the colors go from tan to green as we came east over Colorado and Nebraska. A beautiful sight were the rolling hills. The square sections of farms reminded me of a great patch-work quilt, spread over an inviting bed or sofa. The sun was just setting as I drove into Charter Oak, St. Boniface’s steeple welcomes you home if you come in on L51 from the South. No sooner did I park in front of "Mallory Manor" (a.k.a. "the Butler House," or "the Weed House.) than Gracie came racing down the walk to give me a hug.