You Can't Go Home Again
Erin and I have been talking a bit about home recently -- Washington for her and bits of New Hampshire for me. It has struck me that the next time I'm in New Hampshire it will probably be for Christmas, if my nuclear family doesn't just meet in the middle in Ohio again.
I'm sure that I will love hiking and adventuring out in the Sierras, hopefully with my Dad every now and then, but it will have a sense of adventuring only. In California I don't know if I'll ever feel like I'm out in the wilds of my home, which an old rickety Inn and a warm hearth and hearty fiddleheads with mashed potatoes at the end of my trail.
I've always said I never really felt like I had any real roots anywhere, and that still holds some truth -- I still don't fit in completely with New Hampshire. But all this talk of going far, far away is bringing out something quite real: Dad and Mom have made it their home while putting down roots, and while raising me there dug out something I could call home. The smell of a hockey locker room; the crisp crunch of snow at a New Deal ski area; the rugged, ancient giants of the Presidentials; The creak of wood in a centuries-old inn; The lost granite rock wall in the woods;
A wooded, wild, very New England solace that I won't see again for a long time. Until then, New Hampshire, please don't change too much.