Coming Home

At home, I'm covered in paint, I'm sweaty, and I'm myself. It wasn't until recently that I began to see my hometown for what it is - a blue collar, farming community in the desert. And apparently, one that produces the most potatoes in the U.S. I had never noticed the sagebrush that sprawls on undeveloped land, the sunsets that unfold over half of the sky, the lack of a downtown community.

Then I moved away to a place where only hired hands do lawn work, where girls wear dresses every day, and where going out for a glass of wine is a standard past time. I smiled at the migrant workers who moved out of the way as I jogged past, I bought the dresses (albeit the cheap versions of popular looks), and I drank the wine, which I tolerate only when it's syrupy sweet. I suppose I fit in, but I felt best late at night when I returned sweaty from a run.

What I missed most was a feeling, one that I've only ever had on this side of the country; I think I can only describe it as being absolutely content and at peace. This feeling comes at night when the sun goes down and a cool breeze fills the air; everyone knows to turn off the AC and to open the windows. I get this feeling when I do my yearly hike to the top of Oyster Dome to look out at the San Juan Islands, when I see a forest of snow covered pines, when I smell cows and the lake and alfalfa. When I return to the West.

Over there, it's not like here. I sweat when I walk out the door, and even at 3:00 AM, it's too stifling to turn off the AC. The trees are unfamiliar, and I'm depressed by hills full of empty branches when the leaves fall. I hike, but the highest point is the same as the average altitude of Colorado. In the south, no one understands snow; towns close down before the first flake has fallen.

I never saw myself as being attached to a place. Now I wonder how much I'll give up to return here permanently.