It happened fast. We were in Kentucky for my Dad’s funeral last month, surrounded by family I haven’t seen in years. It is the place I spent my summers growing up.

I have great memories of the place. My daughter has a picture on our refrigerator that my mother gave her of me, 9 years old and proud as I can be, wearing a Little League uniform from a summer there.

I believe I was having a piece of fried chicken and some potato salad when someone said:

“[Sorry, family nickname that will not be revealed] we sure wish you lived around here.”

“I do, too,” [Sorry, family nickname that will not be revealed] responded.

Then there was the moment in a convenience store when the cashier noticed the Maine plates on our car and said:

“My, but you’re a long way from home. What are ya’ll doing all the way down here?”

I told her we were there for a funeral.

The lady looked up and took a closer look at me and said:

“Why you’re Mean Gene’s boy aren’t you.”

“Linda,” she called to a woman in the back. “Come out here. Mean Gene’s boy is here.”

I found that my Dad’s nickname was a term of affection and was derived from the way he jokingly picked at the women who worked there. I heard stories. I was made to feel at home by these strangers.

The more I saw my cousins. The more hugs. The more “remember whens.” The more I saw my aunts and uncles. The more I saw my brother and my nephews. The more I saw my mother and my daughters together – the more I realized that “I do, too,” really meant “I do, too.”

So, after 15 years here in the great white north, we’re going south to the land of heat waves and tornadoes. (I’ll see your Nor’Easter and raise you a pair of twisters.)

It is not an easy thing to do. On occasion recently I have looked in a mirror and asked myself if I was out of my mind.

It is a loaded question, no doubt, one others, more experienced in the field, will have to answer.

It is a decision filled with regrets but not the “you’ll be sorry” regrets.

My regret is that I won’t be here to cover the next high school season. To talk to the coaches and athletic directors I’ve come to know over the past 15 years.

I regret that I won’t be sitting courtside at next year’s Eastern Maine basketball tournaments.

I’m going to miss commiserating with the rest of Red Sox Nation. It’s going to take some time adjusting to being around people who believe that Cardinals highlights are the most important things on ESPN’s SportsCenter.

I’ll miss the UMaine hockey season and the Bruins’ Scrooge penny-counting management approach which leads to their annual four-and-done in the playoffs routine.

I’ll miss the friends I’ve made here. I’ll miss not being able to hop in the car and meet them for a quick nine holes. And the spur-of-the-moment phone calls on the State of the New England sports teams that can last the length of a Red Sox game.

I’ll miss readers’ e-mails and phone calls that I’ve received (both good and bad).

I’m going to miss the folks here at the NEWS. Everyone has been kind and supportive of our decision.

And finally the answer is no. After a long deliberation the jury has returned with a verdict: I am not out of my mind.

I left my family in 1974 and have only been back a couple of times.

It’s time to go home.

After June 9 Don Perryman can be reached at donperryman@the-messenger.com