My blog contains a large number of posts. A few are included in various other publications, or as attached stories and chronicles in my emails; many more are found on loose leaves, while some are written carelessly in margins and blank spaces of my notebooks. Of the last sort most are nonsense, now often unintelligible even when legible, or half-remembered fragments. Enjoy responsibly.

Monday, January 15, 2007

Some places speak distinctly

Over my life I have moved many times, more so in the last decade, and have come to realize that I miss certain select places within each of those locations just as much as I miss the people. And as it seems trite to drone on about friends and family, I would instead like to say something about the comfort of places lost.

I am currently living in Saginaw, MI and am not very happy about it. We had to move here so that my wife can finish the last of her med school. For this I blame neither her nor Saginaw. But still, I cannot find anywhere here that feels just right.

The last place we lived, in Roswell, Georgia, had two comfortable places located fairly close to each other. The first is in a small glass nook in which a breakfast table was located at my father and Sherry’s house. It was a wonderful place to curl up with a hot mug of tea and a good book when the weather darkened. The second was the most wonderful trail I have ever had the enjoyment of getting to know. It had everything from a 50 foot waterfall, to a covered bridge, to secluded paths weaving for miles over all sorts of terrain. I miss both immensely.

Before Roswell was a house in Anderson, SC near my mother and Edgar. The house lent itself to being welcoming though age and want -- but it was the distinct loop of streets around the house that seemed to speak the loudest. I was forever finding reasons to walk that route, dog happily trotting beside me, whenever possible.

Maine enjoyed a most warm bedroom paradise. It was that it was a converted attic bedroom above a second floor that we had rented out, and it was just the first place I remember feeling tangible love after leaving hurricane devastated Cayman. The bedroom itself was tiny, the bed was too small, and the floors all creaked. Still, it felt safe and needed me there.

In Grand Cayman we lived in two separate places. One for 90% of the time that we lived on the island, and the other for the last 10% before the storm. Neither felt hospitable in a warm way. Instead, there was a rarely touched beach way back in the National Reserve that drew Kela, our then new dog Lucy, and myself to it every time it could muster a voice strong enough to reach us. Hours, afternoons, thoughts, and memories slipped away there; always with no regrets and a promise to return. Hurricane Ivan destroyed that spot. I hope it returns to call someone else someday.

Previous to Cayman was Kennesaw, GA where Kela and I purchased a fixer-upper in hopes of something I no longer remember. Each room in the house took hours of work; carpet was laid everywhere, tiles redone, walls painted, decks rebuilt. Everywhere in that house felt mine and still does.

From there back I remember sparks of the fires of places. A spot near the river off of La View Circle, the top of the mountain near 7 Loves Lane in Woburn, my crawlspace in Dunwoody, the kitchen where I had a surprise party in the Order, the room in which I got to see Superman on my birthday, and the bed where I played with my Grandmother while my sister was born.

I don’t have a place that nurtures my soul here in Saginaw and I’m not sure I’ll find one. It’s not for lack of want or looking, but it still taunts me with its illusiveness. Maybe there isn’t one here. Maybe I don’t want to find one. Maybe it doesn’t want to find me. Or maybe one just doesn't exist.

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