Home Sweet
It's a region sometimes. Home for me used to be Arkansas, where they have gorgeous azaleas like these pictured. For many years as the plane landed at Little Rock National Airport (don't get me started on THAT), I felt I was coming home. As I strolled in my parents' neighborhood and saw the familiar houses, I felt I was home. I still think of the Ashcrafts living next door and the Isenmans over on the next street and the Jackman house is still the one on the corner, even though those families are long gone (and in some cases dead).
OH, I'M NOT GOING TO BE MAUDLIN.
But I realized that it's not home any more. It's too different. The stores aren't right. The lanes of traffic aren't right. Right near my family's house is an intersection where someone decided to paint four lanes going across. The only problem is there isn't room for four lanes. There might be room for three. So when you come barreling down the rather steep hill toward this intersection and you get into what seems like the left lane to turn into my parents' street, you will notice that OHMYGODTHEREISN'TENOUGHROOM. Just a little blood pressure elevation to add variety to your day.
See, I don't accept the last twenty years of development in Little Rock. All those stores and malls and Arby's and McDonald's out in the west part of town? I don't accept them. I don't know how to get there anyway.
Meanwhile, I've lived in New England for lo these many years and it should be my home. It should. But you know, I pronounce "ant" and "aunt" the same. This will never be my true home. It's funny when you head back to Massachusetts from Arkansas. The people are so different on the airplane. They all have laptops and books. They're quiet and look like they have advanced degrees from a better school than where you went. I'm not exactly at home here either.
0 comments:
Post a Comment