by Anne Edwards
I was seeking all of those—especially security, happiness—a source of creativity. And, yes, home meant my place of origin. I hoped it would not be simply a refuge. More than any time I could recall, life seemed to be leading me back to my roots, which I now knew did not mean a specific house or town.
That night as I stood looking out across the dark sea, I remembered the time so many years before when I had held my two children’s hands as we looked out over a similar scene. I told them we were on our way to a great adventure. It had turned out to be just that. But adventures do end, and where does one go then? I whispered it to myself: “Home.” I thought I could see the lights from shore, but they turned out to be another boat in the distance going along a horizontal course.
I came back up on deck the next morning after immigration had stamped our passports. Everyone was crowded against the railing wanting to get a photo or just a good look of the Statue of Liberty, which was straight ahead and fully visible. Never had I felt freer. I knew not what was ahead for me. For that matter, no one can foresee their own future. I was full up with plans. I had returned in time for a major presidential race and would get into some part of it and fight for the candidate of my choice. That idea excited me. I held no grudges or resentments. Writing Shadow of a Lion had somehow placed the McCarthy years, and my life as an expat, into the past, a part of my personal history. I had the curious feeling that I had never really left home. I had taken it with me, along with my book that held almost every word in the English language.
Catherine and Alex had joined me on deck. Alex was jumping up and down. “Lady Liberty! Lady Liberty!” he kept shouting and waving as we passed her by. We went up to the kennels and took Biba and Chrissy back to the cabin with us as we waited to disembark. Finally, the motors stopped. The moment I stepped off the gangplank, a wave of wonder flooded over me. This was not another visit home, this was a final return. Wherever I went from this day forth, home went with me.
Home tomorrow yet no one awaits me
It has no front or back door.
Sky for roof,
Earth for floor.
It is the wide country where I was born
And will be forever bound.
About the Author
Born on the East Coast, at the age of four Anne Edwards moved with her parents to Hollywood, where she spent most of her childhood and young adult years, first as a performer, then as a film writer. The event of McCarthyism and the Hollywood blacklist in the late 1940s and early 1950s caused her to leave home and find work abroad. Fate placed her in London, where she spent the major part of the next two decades.
Her return was a second act few of her colleagues enjoyed. She very quickly became a best-selling author, first of novels, then of numerous critically acclaimed biographies that include Vivien Leigh, Margaret Mitchell, Katharine Hepburn, Sonya Tolstoy, Queen Elizabeth and her sister, Princess Margaret, Princess Diana, Maria Callas, and two volumes on Ronald Reagan (Early Reagan and The Reagans).
She gained much media attention as the author of the much-discussed and never published (due to estate problems) sequel to Margaret Mitchell’s immortal novel Gone with the Wind. She is also a past president of the Authors Guild.
She finally has returned to California, where she lives with her husband, author and musical theater historian Stephen Citron.