When I was very young, I used to say that I wanted to grow up to be a Congresswoman from California, so that I could live and work on both coasts; to my very simple mind, it was the only way to do such an impressive and unique thing.
I fell in love with the east coast after a childhood trip to both New York and Washington, D.C. and the right side of the lower 48 has never loosened its adamantine grip on my heart. But, unlike some of my loved ones who have swtched sides, I am not happiest when I’m across from where I’m from. I wish that were the case, but as giddy as I am to live somewhere where the Smithsonian is mine for the wandering and New York is but a cab ride and Amtrak trip away, I’m haunted by homesickness far more often than I prefer to admit. If anything, I’ve made my uneasy choice because when I’m here, I miss Northern California slightly less than when that situation is reversed— but we’re talking about a 55/45 split, so it’s nowhere near an ideal situation.
Listening to Dinosaur Jr. last night certainly didn’t ameliorate the situation, but making tentative plans for a possible journey home did. I think I’ll take a few days off at the beginning of September to hug my Mother, check on my Godson, THROW AN SF MEETUP, get pedicures from people who know what they’re doing, drink plenty of Peet’s, dodge marriage queries, eat real sourdough, hold office hours, irritate my Mother and otherwise bliss out as I zip about Davis and Snob Hill in my much-missed sick civic.
I know that I’m not unique, that many of you are also far from your ‘hood, where the food is fantastic and pure love flows freely; if you care to follow a 55Friday theme, write about home, the sickness it evokes or just plain missing someone whom you love. As always, you are welcome to flash us with a story (and nothing else!) on any subject under the sun, just be thoughtful enough to leave your nanofiction below. 55 words about distance, where you grew up or the sweet thrill of “goin’ home”. Ready, steady…go.
