Here's something you might be interested in.
Since leaving home in 1996, I have lived primarily in major cities. Hong Kong, New York, Cologne, and some smaller ones, in the UK, and San Diego in California. Now I am beginning to consider moving back up North. I wonder if it will be anything like my memories. I remember the hot summers with fire worry, the wildly windy springs, the snap cold autumn and the wet bitter winters. I remember trying to cross my dead end street during school or soccer or little league season with what seemed like millions of minivans not giving an inch for the pedestrian. I remember the squabbling neighbors, barking dogs, the loud music from the middle school dances and the fifty three steps to climb to my front door. I remember the way the light looks in evening, lavender light I used to call it, the stillness outside except for the howl of the coyote or the rustle of deer. The squealing of the foxes playing outside my bedroom window, or the hilarity of the wild turkeys flapping up the wooden steps to get to the wooded area next to my house. I remember the sound of rain on the sky window that lulled me to sleep and the wind blowing so hard it kept me awake. I can still see a sky so black at night with stars so bright they felt close enough to touch. Trees, everywhere there are trees and dirt so hard with clay only rosemary will grow in good health. I made the mistake or not, of reading the local small town newspaper online tonight. My bubble burst when I discovered someone had set fire to the hillside behind the seven eleven that is very close to my house, someone had broken all the windows of the middle school across the street from my house and some idiot in a neighboring town bit a three year old in the face. I felt as if it were me being bitten by a rabid case of reality. Not only is the dirt so full of clay that nothing grows, but there are the same kind of crazy creeps in a small town as there are in a big city, there are fewer of them, but they stick out more. I feel violated having read the newspaper that I never subscribed to when I lived there because they are a bunch of fear mongers. I feel angry that they dare burst my dreamy bubble of quietude and peace. Then I looked around. My neighborhood, the one I currently live in, have lived in for the past six years, is filled to overflowing with friends, flowers, and good will. I am so glad University Heights is my home town.
Since leaving home in 1996, I have lived primarily in major cities. Hong Kong, New York, Cologne, and some smaller ones, in the UK, and San Diego in California. Now I am beginning to consider moving back up North. I wonder if it will be anything like my memories. I remember the hot summers with fire worry, the wildly windy springs, the snap cold autumn and the wet bitter winters. I remember trying to cross my dead end street during school or soccer or little league season with what seemed like millions of minivans not giving an inch for the pedestrian. I remember the squabbling neighbors, barking dogs, the loud music from the middle school dances and the fifty three steps to climb to my front door. I remember the way the light looks in evening, lavender light I used to call it, the stillness outside except for the howl of the coyote or the rustle of deer. The squealing of the foxes playing outside my bedroom window, or the hilarity of the wild turkeys flapping up the wooden steps to get to the wooded area next to my house. I remember the sound of rain on the sky window that lulled me to sleep and the wind blowing so hard it kept me awake. I can still see a sky so black at night with stars so bright they felt close enough to touch. Trees, everywhere there are trees and dirt so hard with clay only rosemary will grow in good health. I made the mistake or not, of reading the local small town newspaper online tonight. My bubble burst when I discovered someone had set fire to the hillside behind the seven eleven that is very close to my house, someone had broken all the windows of the middle school across the street from my house and some idiot in a neighboring town bit a three year old in the face. I felt as if it were me being bitten by a rabid case of reality. Not only is the dirt so full of clay that nothing grows, but there are the same kind of crazy creeps in a small town as there are in a big city, there are fewer of them, but they stick out more. I feel violated having read the newspaper that I never subscribed to when I lived there because they are a bunch of fear mongers. I feel angry that they dare burst my dreamy bubble of quietude and peace. Then I looked around. My neighborhood, the one I currently live in, have lived in for the past six years, is filled to overflowing with friends, flowers, and good will. I am so glad University Heights is my home town.