The Drive Home

As I drive home from work I look at the small town around me. It' such a picturesque setting, like something out of a book, but I wasn't born here. I wasn't raised here. This is not my home town. This is not where I'm from. I have lived here for over 21 years, the majority of my life, but I am originally from Tacoma, WA with a few early years spent in Portland, OR. I miss big cities. I miss the bustling malls, the zoos that have more than slugs and crows, and the live sporting events that don't involve your children. I miss the speed of life in a city. In 21 years I still haven't learned how to slow down yet. I walk fast. I talk fast. I drive fast.

But not today. Today I stick to the speed limit and enjoy the meditative calm of driving as I look around. I decide not to go straight to the house. I take some side streets and cruise, looking at cute houses with nicely manicures lawns. I see the home of my old boss, small but neatly mowed. I don't work for her anymore, but I smile every time I pass. She is no longer my boss, but she'll always be a friend. I stop smiling as I see her neighbor's house, remembering the news story of the guy that got arrested there for child porn a few years ago. Even small towns can have cancers. I hope he rots.

I turn again and make my way into a more rural area. I let my speed climb a bit as I cruise with houses on one side and a redwood forest on the other, opening my window to let the fresh air in. I love the wet, earthy smell of the forest. I have seen forests in other places, but nothing compares to the redwoods. As I pass I start thinking of my children. I remember living in this area and how much the girls loved the redwoods in the backyard. I still smile when I think of the zombie targets they picked out and taped to the trees to practice with their BB guns. I remember taking them to the Avenue of the Giants when they were little and letting them run wild with my best friend's kids. They love redwoods.

As I get to the end of the road I can turn right and head into Pine Hill, or left and take the 101 North into the heart of the town. I love Pine Hill. I bought my first house in that neighborhood. My kids both started school at that little elementary. They learned to ride their bikes at that house and we would ride them to the corner market for overpriced snacks just to get some sunshine. We brought our dog home to that house and I can still remember catching him chewing on the asbestos siding as a pup. I always laugh when I think of that house, because my girls asked me for a room that was pink with purple polka dots. I tried to talk them out of it, but they were 3 and 5 and REALLY wanted it. I let them help and there were two sets of the most precious purple fingerprints on one of the walls. I almost cut out the drywall and brought it with me when we moved. I miss that house.

I decide to turn left and get on the 101. As I start to slow down and enter city limits, I see the difference between this area and what I just cruised through. I see shuttered shops, an almost empty mall, and homeless people milling about. Some sit at corners with signs, some are just out walking, and then there are The Others. The ones that have shouting matches with invisible enemies. The ones that shoot up in plain sight. The ones that have no hesitation about pooping on the sidewalk, doing pole dances for passing commuters, walking into stores with their privates showing, or throwing things at cars because they can. As I see them I remember all the times I have been out with my girls and have had to avoid dirty, discarded needles. This town has another cancer. The cure for the cancer of addiction that my town is currently facing is rehabs and mental health facilities; both of which my town lacks. Just passing out needles seems to have exasperated the problem. The addicts need more than that. They need better. This town needs better.

I pass an electrical box with a cool sunset scene and slugs painted on it. My oldest daughter loves that box. It inspired the sunset we painted on one of her walls in the new house. It's not my personal favorite. There are boxes and walls all over town that have been painted and my favorite is an amazing piece featuring a great white shark. It's been vandalized three times by the homeless; the artist just stopped fixing it. We have one of the highest population of artists here, per capita. Though there is a lot of darkness here, the citizens, local government, and artists are trying to beatify this town. Sometimes I wish the boxes had a unifying theme, but the variety in design doesn't bother me too much. I love seeing all the different art as I pass.

I turn off the main road and cruise through another neighborhood. The girls' Meemaw and Poppa live in this neighborhood. They have a small but maintained home on a corner lot, but their house is the exception. Most houses in this part have broken down cars on the lawn and broken windows, graffiti, and regular police visits. One of the big problem houses was condemned last week. It's all boarded up now and empty, and the neighbors are really hoping that will make a difference here. This neighborhood always makes me think of Halloween. I always brought my girls here first for trick or treating. Meemaw always puts together goody bags to pass out and the neighbors used to get so into the holiday! There would be elaborate decorations and costumes and haunted lawns. A few years ago the number of decorated houses started getting smaller and has declined every year. No one really does it anymore. That breaks my heart, but I still cherish the memories of my girls being little, dressed up, and as happy as a kid can be.

I turn again and cruise all the way to Old Town. As I pass the library I look to see how many homeless are hanging out there. It's still empty. It's been empty since the city council stopped the needle handouts in the city limits. I might start bringing my kids back if this lasts after the library reopens. I stop for a second trying to decide if I want to park at the bay or drive over the bridge and go look at the ocean for a minute. I love living near water. I couldn't imagine being without it. I decide to stay on this side of the bridge and I park at the foot of F street. I get out of my Jeep, get an ice cream cone, walk to the boardwalk and take a seat at a bench.

As I look out at the sun setting over the water and eat my ice cream, I start thinking about the places I drove by today. I think of the different homes we've lived in. The different places I've worked. I think of friends we've made and visited and ones we no longer see. I think of my sister, the only family I have, and her new baby; my first and only niece. I think of school plays and softball games and ballet and PTA meetings. I remember coaching my girls in basketball and Bible Quizzing and leading 2 Girl Scout troops at the same time. I think of pink and purple bedrooms and how they have evolved into sunset scenes and faux brick graffiti walls. I take another bite of my ice cream and I laugh to myself about the time we decided to come down here for one of the summer concerts held every Thursday night. We parked so far away and got ice cream during the walk and it was so cold!! We shivered the entire time until we gave up and laughed at ourselves on the way home for being so wimpy about the cold as I turned the heater up in the car.

I think of how diverse this area is and how I'm never more than 30 minutes from heat, snow, ocean, mountains, or forests. Humboldt County truly is a beautiful place. Though this place really has all anyone could want, the girls and I still appreciate a seeing other places. I think of how poor I was as a single mom, so just a weekend getaway was so rare and exciting for them. They always fell asleep on the way home and I'd tell them they were the worst copilots ever.

The way home. That phrase sticks in my head. The way home. Again I reflect and realize that there isn't a place here that doesn't hold a memory for me. I bought my houses here. I had my children here. I got my first job here. I met my current husband and my new kids here. I learned to blow glass here. I've done drugs here and I've gotten clean here. I've been to jail here and I've been to church here. My grandpa is buried here. My cat is under the rose bush in the yard. My oldest daughter earned a seat on the City Youth Council here to learn how to spend her adulthood improving her hometown.

I think about my girls shooting soda cans by the water and riding their bikes in the middle of the road and trading stable work for horseback riding lessons. I think of science fair projects, school dances, pottery classes, and fishing trips.

So many memories. So many accomplishments. So many heartbreaks. So many victories.

It hits me. I wasn't raised here, but I did grow up here and I do have roots here. This is my hometown. Yes, there are problems here, but there is so much good here, too. This is my home, and I love it.

I walk back to the car and head home. Home. The thought makes me smile.