I’ve been alluding to the fact that I traveled last weekend back home to Texas to see my family. I hadn’t been home in 3 long years.
Because of health reasons, my Dad and step mom cannot come to me, and at this point, traveling with a small family of 5 is not feasible.
The decision was made for me to go home alone.
My excitement to see my folks was tempered by my reluctance to leave my own little family behind.
And seeing their 4 sad faces in the driveway, as they waved goodbye was almost more than I could bear.
My Texas home is a small community near San Antonio. When we moved there in 1975, there wasn’t even a stop light at the main intersection. There were no stores to speak of, and only one gas station. My high school, about 10 miles down the road, was considered rural. Home of the rednecks and FFA.
And I liked it that way.
I attended a small Catholic church, belonged to the CYO, and played guitar and sang in the guitar mass. I use the word “sang” loosely, since I “sing” only at gun point.
But I lip sync really really well. Way better than Ashley Simpson. In my humble opinion.
Our community was a wonderful place to grow up. I became a bonified country girl, drove a big pickup, and had my name on the back of my belt. And this was about this time that I took up chewing tobacco.
A habit which lasted 30 seconds.
After the world stopped spinning, I could pick my head up off the ground, and my color returned, I gave it up.
Cold turkey. Who says I have no will power.
After college, I left this tiny town behind in my rear view mirror. Never to live there again.
And yet, whenever I return home to visit, as infrequent as that is, I feel like I’m going home.
My tiny town is no longer quant. The main intersection has a stop light, and is no longer a main intersection. There are FOUR Starbucks within a block of each other, more places to shop than I could EVER adequately cover, and traffic that rivals the roads of Los Angeles and Dallas. Both places I’ve lived.
And I never ever see anyone I know when I’m out.
But once I get past the hustle and bustle of this burgeoning city dwelling, I am thankful to turn onto my old street. To drive down the familiar road, where very little has changed, and turn into my old twisty driveway and see my house.
And then be greeted at the door, with familiar smells, and long lingering hugs from my family.
After a wonderful, but all too short visit, I felt a tugging at my heart. I longed for those four faces that I left days before in a driveway.
And with them, my heart is most at home.
(Daring airport adventures to follow soon.)