"Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose" Jean-Baptiste Alphonse Karr

The more things change, the more they stay the same - Thanksgiving, for one example. Thanksgiving is the quintessential American holiday characterized by food, family and giving thanks for one's blessings. That tradition has not changed since the Pilgrims' first Thanksgiving celebration in 1621.

My own Thanksgiving, however, has been fraught with change over the years. The guest list alters, the menu varies, my blessings wax and wane but wackiness is the one constant. Thanksgivings past I've experienced more crazy meals than stuffing recipes - one year in particular I can recall the family entertaining Martin, a helicopter pilot from New Zealand who regaled us with tales of his encounters in New Guinea with Pygmy cannibals. No matter what the menu consisted of that year it was a guaranteed success because he was a guest and not the meal.

Some years I've cooked a spectacular feast made from scratch while other years have been a downright disaster such as the year of the tasteless Tofurkey. This year fell into the basic albeit unimaginative category due to a shortage of time, the lackluster economy, and general holiday burnout. When Daughter #1 graciously offered to donate her free turkey I gratefully accepted. However, Daughter #1 did not deliver the gratuitous turkey until the day before Thanksgiving and the turkey arrived in a frozen solid state. A vegetarian myself, this didn't vex me but carnivorous guests were arriving in less than 24 hours expecting a traditional Thanksgiving dinner so I spent the first half of Thanksgiving eve attempting to quick thaw the bird and the remainder of the night with my hands up the turkey's derriere trying to extricate that frozen bag of innards. Frostbitten hands aside, the turkey eventually thawed, Thanksgiving was saved, dinner was served and the holiday went on with food, family and blessings intact.

That notable epigram "plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose" also holds true for Hubert. When I recently heard that the brother of a close friend was planning a vacation in France (with a side trip to Strasbourg, no less) I supplied him with copies of all of my Hubert etchings set in Strasbourg just in case the opportunity to do a little reconnaissance presented itself. True to his word he did investigate, kindly devoting a portion of his short stay to visit the scenes depicted in my etchings and he meticulously photographed the identical buildings. Despite the fact that at least 100 years have passed since Hubert etched those scenes in Strasbourg, remarkably the sites have changed very little. Yes, the more things change, the more they stay the same. That unfortunately also holds true for the fact that, still, no one knows my Hubert...

"The past,' he thought, 'is linked with the present by an unbroken chain of events flowing one out of another.' And it seemed to him that he had just seen both ends of that chain; that when he touched one end the other quivered." Anton Chekkov

Thomas Wolfe once wrote "You can't go home again." Or can you? I found myself pondering this when I received an email from an old friend from the old neighborhood where I grew up. I had long since relegated those old memories to my mental filing cabinet where they remained stored away collecting dust because, realistically speaking, you can never relive the past. Time alters everything - places change, familiar landmarks disappear, old neighborhoods often become unrecognizable.  The memories are often all that is left because you cannot experience those times again.

Then it occurred to me that no matter how much the old neighborhood has changed it's still an integral part of me. When I opened that email the cobwebs suddenly cleared, the memories gradually filtered back and I realized that much of who I am right now has been shaped by that very place I called home for so many years. Time can erase buildings but it can't erase memories. It's comforting to know that even though I might not be able to physically return to the old homestead my memories will always be there to reflect upon. Memories create our legacy. They are uniquely ours to hold and remember, they are what make our lives not only special but richer. So although technically it might be impossible to go home again, emotionally and spiritually it's good for the soul to revisit your roots.

Which brings me to Hubert's roots - if Hubert is indeed Albert C. Hubert, as has been suggested, then his birthplace would have been Austria. The only biographical details I could uncover for Albert C. Hubert were the date of his birth (1878) and the date of his death (1932). The 54 years in between remain a complete mystery. The only example of his work that I could locate was the above oil painting. To my untrained eye it looks similar to my Hubert's etchings but I'm not sure if that's due to the actual style or merely because the subject matter is similar. Attempts to contact various auction galleries have not elicited any response to date. Hubert's roots may still remain an uncertainty but, as American photographer Paul Strand so aptly stated, "The artist's world is limitless. It can be found anywhere, far from where he lives or a few feet away. It is always on his doorstep." Wherever that doorstep may be...