Home

I've lived in many places, but there is a small, slighly smelly town in Georgia that I call my home. It's the place where I came to my awareness and shaped me into an adult. I have not been back since the day after graduation, but I look back on my memories and adventures there with fondness. I hope over the coming days, weeks, months that I can share those stories.

I grew up in a working class neighborhood sandwiched between salt marshes and scrub pine, trailer parks and mildly scary duplexes. I had complete freedom to roam about on my bike or my skates, often in the company of my younger sister and neighborhood friends. There were times it was like we were a motley bicycle gang, certainly up to no good and always looking trouble. Did I participate in illegal activities? Yes. Did I enjoy them? Of course.

My hometown is hot, insanely hot. I think the heat forces you to become very somewhat lethargic in both speech and action. I miss that. I like to amble along. I like to conveniently drop syllables from my words and smash them into other words. I like the simplicity of that life and the way humidity adds almost a reluctant passion to your nature.

It's been a long time since I've seen that world. Maybe it's changed from the treasured images of my memory. Maybe it's become a city with a purpose and has a brisk pace to match modern times. Maybe the trailer parks and duplexes have been removed to make way for new, improved subdivisions. Maybe children no longer dare to ride their bikes in packs looking for dangerous opportunities, they have too much texting and facebooking to do. I hope not, because it would take away from the ordinary magic of a unassuming town.