My life has become increasingly infiltrated by Pennsylvania. Although my driver’s license and place of residence attest loyalty to the great Keystone State, I can’t shake my roots. I’m a New Yorker, born and raised. Pennsylvanians claim I have a western New York accent. New Yorkers assert my nasally intonation has faded. I’m a nomad without an identifiable dialect.
The time has come for another sojourn to the north. It’s time for Brady’s (aka my still new-ish car) first roadtrip. I’m looking forward to the anticipated reunions, both with people and a special piece of vegetation. Each trip home involves not only my familial home, but what I consider to be my spiritual home along the beloved shores of Lake Chautauqua. It’s where my new life began. It’s a place that is inseparable from my story.
Spoiled by my parents’ preparation to alleviate the anguish of empty-nest syndrome, I will be lulled to sleep by the waves of Erie. I’ll be home. Not home in the form of the location of my childhood memories, but home as established by being surrounded by those who love me. The time will pass quickly in our day together. We all check the weather repeatedly to see which of my parents’ toys will entertain us for the day. I’m pulling for sunshine and an afternoon out on the boat. But that’s just me. Their excitement for our time together is sweet. You would think after living under their roof for nearly two decades they would have had their fill of me. Au contraire.
I’m homeward bound. Off to see cherished family and friends. To take in beautiful sunsets. To be soothed by the water. To get a hug from my Daddy. To laugh with my Momma. To share a glimpse of my story. And, as long as I’m in the neighborhood, to stock up on some fine western New York wine (it can’t all be poetic.).