Ex-Pat Yankee Dreams of Home

Rootbeer, pickle relish, tacos. The sound of a front porch screen door slapping on its sprung hinges. Choruses of June bugs accompanying firefly acolytes in a sanctuary of summer twilight. Thunderstorms. National parks. Distances. Corn.

Rivers of a proper size and people who use their car horns and raiding mulberry trees. Singing Battle Hymn of the Republic as part of a large, harmonious choir. Sundays that mean something.

A decent doughnut with a bottomless cup of coffee. Diners, truck stops, service. Taking a Greyhound bus across endless miles of straight road. The sound of the letter R. Submarine sandwiches of architectural size and shameless self-belief.

The people who have known me and loved me since birth. Closets. Skunks. Flags.

Ducks made of calico at shopping mall craft shows. The county fair. My mother’s cheesecake and my father’s houseplants. The friends who grew up with me. “God bless you.”

Mark Twain one man shows, country music radio, roadmaps based on geometry. Saturday garage sale expeditions planned with military precision. The rapid-fire voices of auctioneers. Serious heat and serious cold and a history that is my own.

The feeling I belong, even as a discontented outsider, to a world that had no choice but to welcome me.

old house
Also corn dogs.

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4 thoughts on “Ex-Pat Yankee Dreams of Home

  1. Footpaths everywhere. Sidewalks because city planners (if there are such things) expect people to walk places. Grocery trollys with four spinning wheels. Really good chocolate. Never being served Lipton’s anywhere. Trains! Old buildings with *real* age on them. Castles. Never being too hot. Fast-food pasties. Seldom being more than a couple of hours away from the ocean–even if the water’s too cold for swimming.
    Being a short walk or train-ride away from some of the people you love, not across an ocean.

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