Itchy Feet

As the first European settlers left the relative comfort of the eastern seaboard and headed westward, I suspect that much of Pennsylvania, New York, and Virginia looked like home. As they pushed through the Midwest, not much changed until they reached the Missouri River. Lewis and Clark crossed the river in the area now known as Ray County, Missouri to the east, and Kansas City to the west. The land was rich in wildlife and the soil rich from the river's annual crest and fall. The settlers must have thought they'd found paradise and so they soldiered on through the grassfields of Kansas and Iowa, and into Nebraska. Some turned north to find themselves in South Dakota and the beginnings of scrub brush and golden earth. Some turned south into Oklahoma and Texas. Some stayed when the cattle and horses starved and built homes from sod and sticks. Some pushed on, thinking paradise was just through the next mountain pass, only to find months of sand and sagebrush dotted with the remains of wagons and horses and families. And still they continued onward.

I've only remained in contact with a handful of childhood friends. Some have travelled, some have moved out of state. Most still live within the same area code as their parents, and their parents' parents. I have itchy feet, as did my parents, and with one exception, their parents. By the time I was 8 years old, I had lived in South Carolina, Colorado, Texas, and California. By the time I was 17, I had made two additional moves between Texas and California. Although I do love to travel, I also yearn for home.

Home. Such an interesting word. When a new family moves into the neighborhood, inevitably someone asks them where they're from. Where's home? Is that where you were born? Is it where you were raised? Or your last mailing address? I typically claim Ohio because I loved living there. I felt like I belonged there. I loved the smell of summer winds blowing through tall ears of corn and the way the temperature dropped two degrees while walking past the alfalfa fields, and there was so much sky.

Home. I visited my youngest daughter a couple of months ago in Dayton, not far from where she was born. I wanted to say, "It's nice to be home," but too much has changed. Many of the fields are gone, covered in steel and concrete, and the skies, dim with progress, smell unfamiliar. I've changed. Walt is good to say that you can go back, but you can't go back then.

Perhaps home isn't a place, but a feeling. I'm in a state park with Dakota, making our way through this year's Big Trip and although I've not been here before, I feel like I belong. I felt like I belonged in Cape Breton this spring, and in Wales last year. Maybe home doesn't start or stop at the state line.

I remember being six and walking to the edge of the neighborhood, then taking another step. In that moment, my neighborhood grew...became larger. Not much has changed. I miss Walt and the smell of my house and the familiar routine that keeps me rooted. And these trips? They're like the itchy feet of a six-year-old girl walking to the boundary of the neighborhood...and then taking another step.