Fifteen Years (Fish Nor Fowl)

Fifteen years ago, I packed too much stuff into a tiny clown car and my dad drove me up to Ohio.

Eleven years ago, I drove a moving van up to a really cold, miserable year in the Northeast.  (It did improve thereafter.)

Five years ago, I drove a bitter orange tree a thousand miles to come live in the land of lakes, cheese, and sausage.  Bug was just a tiny little lima bean. 

Tomorrow, the children and I are getting on a plane and we are going back to the South.  We may never leave again.  Oh, God, we may never leave again.

I had to call around and was reminded of a few key facts: 1) Everyone in them thar hills has the same educated-Southerner-who-never-left-the South accent; 2) they all think I am some damn Yankee because I have the Southerner-who-went-to-school-in-the-North accent; 3) there is no such thing as a short conversation in the South.

My family is there, but I'm not.  I don't sound like them, but I'm from there.  Neither here nor there... this is going to be hard.

So: I'm happy!  I'm sad!  I'm going to a hellacious wedding full of lawyers!  I'm travelling alone for ten hours with two little kids!  We get to see my family!  I'm living in the mountains!  Oh, $%!+, I'm living in the mountains!  Et cetera.

There's going to be some of this:

And some of this, except not Texas, of course:

And some bourbon:

And some deeply conflicted feelings:

And I'm pretty sure it will be all right in the end.