My true compass points towards the Northeast, to a place where I still call "home". Sure, they built a casino along Main Street, changed the name of my junior high school and sandblasted the bricks on my old house, but some things will forever remain the same. The smell and feel of the salt air on a warm summer day. The colorful foliage in autumn along the long and winding roads...the fragrance of the lilacs in spring. The old, familiar feeling that cradles me each time I travel there and being surrounded by people who "get" me.
I have often wondered how I can call one place home, yet live in a completely different environment. In a locale where religion is sometimes times preached from the street corners, where often times the Civil War is still being fought and where being branded a "Yankee" will follow a person forever as if they carry a scarlet letter. This place is a place I've lived for 37 years and although my "you guys" sounds faintly Southern now, I still feel as though I'm on the outside looking in.
Did my choice in staying here all these years stem from my stubbornness or was it in part, a way to punish myself for fleeing so many years ago? Can I ever truly make amends with my turbulent past? Will I ever find my way back home?
Gratitude statement: Maybe years ago I abandoned Maine, but I'm grateful she never abandoned me.
All gibberish within ©2004-2010 Mildred Ratched Memoirs.