Transfer #20 from Blogspot

Up in Michigan…


this past weekend, the air was the color of scotch and lake Huron, which clings to the curves of our state’s lower peninsula, was Carribean blue, looking as though it belonged not in the midwest but beside some impossibly long white-sand beach, instead.  I drove home on Friday to visit my parents for the Easter weekend and for the first time experienced a kind of driving trance – one moment I was listening to Queen on the radio outside of Detroit and the next I was crossing the Ziwaukee bridge, with no real idea or memory of moving from point A to point B.  When I shared this phenomenon with some people, I was educated on the trances that driving can apparently induce – most people had, at one point or another, hit that driving zone where they are present enough to react well to traffic but meditative enough to blank the trip out of their memories. Apparently there’s a kind of mental and physical exhaustion that plays into this, and for the first time in my life I had both. Whatever, it certainly made the trip go quickly.

In my home town it often seems as though nothing ever changes – the stores, the houses, the churches, the people – all the same year after year after year -there’s been little development save for the addition of a few restaurants, which came so slowly that it’s like they’ve been there forever.  The beaches still have the same names and the tree on First Street where I had my first kiss is still there…three blocks south of my house…C.and the world’s most awful first kiss – he was chewing orange bubble gum and the kiss was replete with syrupy orange saliva – I worried I was gay because I hated my first kiss.  Fortunately it only went up from there, although,how strange – I can’t remember my second kiss, or my third.  I guess our minds need to make room for more urgent matters, and allow only, say, the top ten kisses to remain in tact.

That must be why so many writers spend their lives recreating the landscape of their youths – the landscape where they came of age.  Where they fell in love for the first time, and perhaps the second – where they kissed and drank and played, all for the first time.  Sam’s parents moved him around quite a bit as a child, and they now live thousands of miles from where he graduated high school, and I find that sometimes remarkably sad, that my husband can’t return home and retrace those first steps that initiated the man he came to be.  For me, the geography of my youth is inextricably linked with who I am today, and the fact that so little changes about it soothes my soul.  It reminds me of who I once was, while showing all the promise of who I have yet to be, and for that I am forever thankful that my parents choose to remain in their yellow house on First Avenue, behind Thompson park, couched safely betweent the Mandenburgs and the Kowalkski’s.
It is nice, to be able to go home again. Because you really can.  Who was the writer who said that if you survive childhood, you can write for a lifetime? He was Southern, whoever he was.  And so totally right on.

This entry was posted in Michigan Meditations, The Private, Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Transfer #20 from Blogspot

  1. Peter says:

    Very interesting, On the ball hoho. Happy New year, take Care.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s