Looking Back

This guy showed up in my rear view mirror as we waited to be waved through one of many road construction sites, on Hwy 17 through Ontario. He had a Mad Max/steampunk appeal, in contrast to the contemporary style of the road sign.

I’ve surveyed the garden (so green! no flowers), talked to Eric about the recent epic rainstorm here, remarked as always on the musty smell of the place (is that what guests smell?), glanced at the stacks of mail (mostly recycling, no doubt), disposed of more than a few dead roaches, plopped down on my very own bed at last and, 17 minutes home, set to setting down my just-off-the-road wisdom about the trip, America, life and everything.

Last year, arriving in Raleigh on I-40 East, a sign caught my eye: TO 40 West! A momentary urge: wrench the wheel right and loop right back to the road. I resisted of course, but promised myself I’d do it again in summer 2022. This year, I arrive from the opposite side, up through the country on 29 South and down Efland/Cedar Grove Road, N.C., where both sides of the road offer lush fields of flowering tobacco, old tobacco barns, cattle of all colors, horses, a donkey, farmhouses both stately and un-. Though tempted to stop to take photos, I drive on, promising myself I’d come back by soon.

This time, I’m both eager and anxious to be home. I love my funky house and shady green yard, my ridiculously huge bed — to all those belongings that, as George Carlin said, are stuff to me but shit to everyone else. But that wasn’t the whole of it. For some reason I also feel some small trepidation about returning to the familiar. Perhaps it’s fear of stillness after all this motion. How will I handle it? Lie about until cobwebs stretch between my limbs? Set to the writing projects I’ve been “dying” to have time for in this two-month, low-key frenzy? Start painting again, fresh with ideas for new color schemes, and abstractions of the landscapes I’ve admired?

I’m not sure—it’s a vague discomfort, and not conducive to logic, of course. Like most people probably, when I land back home after being gone for a few days or longer, I wander through the house like a lost wraith, trying to remember how I’d filled my days pre-departure. What did my “real life” look like? How was it structured? For me, especially in summer, days are loosely organized but always seem to fill up. Every time, though, I find I’ve forgotten how this works. It takes a day or two to settle into my usual non-routines.

Last year, I was coming home to my cozy, funky home, but also to unfinished duties related to my parents’ estates, and other tasks that the trip had allowed me to avoid. My last stop had been to Charleston to visit my dear friend Sandi, two days that blunted my sadness that the trip was ending, that the school year would begin soon, that syllabuses needed re-vamping, and so on and on. One bright spot was the chance to get back to the blog — in other words, to relive the trip.

This year, I return with the same eagerness to keep/get the ball rolling on the blog, to download my thousand-plus photos — but also to Mitch, whom I can’t wait to see. There lies some of the anxiety, I’m realizing now. How will we “settle in” to a day-to-day, local relationship? My last boyfriend lived 2 hours away, so our visits were structured, and our two houses remained, in some sense, separate, not shared — a pattern I don’t want to repeat. How will we be? And how should I presume? I dunno, Prufrock, the proof is in the proof. Let’s eat the damn peach and take it from here.