“…Well I was born in a small town
And I live in a small town
Prob’ly die in a small town
Oh, those small – communities….”
In a few hours I’m heading home. To Cleveland. Ten-day road trip concluded, it’s back to my future. Other than twin two-week sojourns to Aruba, (guns perched at my head, I might add), and yes, other than the U.S. Army, I’ve never slept off my home court so long a sustained period.
THIS was MY idea. This year, with the advent of east coast events successive weekends, it made sense. This summer, therefore, gracious hosts at Chez Miller enabled me to sandwich five days of Max Parker between family nuptials. I seized the moment!
“…All my friends are so small town
My parents lived in the same small town
My job is so small town …”
From the instant that first rehearsal dinner when Cousin Eric shried “I didn’t know you were invited!” to last night’s tug on my heart: Matt Schorr asking Michael sign the K’tuba…my trip was special.
From musings with Cousin Lewis to amusement with Cousin Mike…From the warmth of Jeff’s toast the first Sunday to the tenderness in Jason’s that second Saturday….and from, most of all, just watching, eyes moisting as 21-month Max, tuxedo and all, marched down the aisle.
Yes, on this trip—my longest voluntary vacation ever, even the mundane was memorable:
Like dining at Ben’s Deli (Bayside) and dubbing it the “best salmon ever had in New York” , and drinking at Dunkin’ Donuts (Great Neck)—“Best decaf ever!” smiled my Meredith.
“…Educated in a small town…
Used to daydream in that small town
Another born romantic that’s me…”
They had a gentle flow, these days. A rhythm. Awaking mid-7’s, I’d hit the diner, then the library…back to the diner for Max and “Mama”, then errands post-lunch and some potschkying around. Family by day, some meetings by night.
“…No I cannot forget where it is that I come from
I cannot forget the people who love me…”
And now…now it’s time to go. Carriage turned pumpkin, heading ‘cross 80, I’ve three states to drive, miles to think and, upon breaking the plane of Ohio, (the proverbial) miles to go before I sleep.
“Sound Of Music” opens Friday. My role, taken more as a favor than anything else, is not well-timed. Heart, mind and agenda lay elsewhere. Not yet behind the wheel, I’m already thinking:
Tryouts for “The Odd Couple” Wednesday. Let’s hope I cast a better show than they cast a director…Then there’s that book I opened that very first night of August. Looking forward to the next chapter(s)….
That, though, is for next week, and the week after. For now I’ll just revel in the week that was, when all my family that chooses family was under one roof, smiling—when two weddings bordered days of a bubbling, growing Max.
If only I could bottle it, bring it home…them home…to my home.
‘Can’t remember the last time I drove west from the coast. Must have been year’s ago–perhaps when my father-in-law died. This time, alas, I’ll be coming from the Empire State, up north a bit. It matters not. Michael will get me to the bridge and from there it’s a straight shot in. Like it always was…all those years.
My trip will end as it always did— all those drives, all those times. Tired of singing, weary of travel, I’ll gaze up ahead at the arches, the bright navy, red and white signposts. “Welcome,” they’ll read, “To The Great State Of Ohio”.
Exhaling, I’ll wind it down, finish the drive.
God will be in His heaven. All will be right with the world. I’ll be home.
“…Well I was born in a small town—
And I can live in a small town
Gonna die in a small town
Ah, that’s prob’ly where they’ll bury me…”
John Mellencamp (adapted)
Finally, we have something in common.
I was born in a small town, too.