Skip to main content

Headed home


It's funny how you can feel nostalgic about a place after just a short time there.  Of course, it's rarely just the place that tugs at your heartstrings.  It's the memory of the people you knew and the experiences you had.  I have great affection for Los Angeles, despite the fact that it is, for most intents and purposes, one giant, exhaust-shrouded, sun-scorched, cement covered mass of urban confusion.  How could such a place make a person feel all warm and fuzzy?  But it does.  I also love the tiny town of Solvang, San Francisco, Denver, Gunnison of course and, harking way back, Portland.  Hilo gives me a little tingle every time I emerge from the airplane and into the warm, damp air, where it smells like flowers and coconut oil and the sea.  I discovered some feelings of nostalgia for the University of Anchorage campus today.  That surprised me.  After all, wasn't I just put through the ringer here, sleep deprived, brain tissue soaked and then wrung out like a wet washcloth?  I went downtown to shop around, eat one more hunk-o-halibut and check out the museum.  It was nice.  I returned to campus and, walking the familiar path from the bus station near the library to the dorms, I got the feeling. 
"Where is everybody?" I though.  "I'm going to miss this place."  Leaving feels a little like leaving home.  I guess that's because it has been home for the past two weeks.  What a fantastic experience!  I've met people I now consider friends and whom I know will remain so into the future.  I can't wait to come back.  For now though, I am looking forward to seeing my furry babies again.  And the not-so-furry one, too.

It's 11:30 p.m. and the sun has finally set here.  I'm the last of the writers to leave.  My plane lifts off for Seattle at 2:30.   

A hui hou.  Aloha! 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Mom

This is my beautiful mom. She died last Sunday. For those who knew her, my heart breaks with you. For those who did not, here's an introduction to the best confidante, role model and mother a girl could hope for in life. This is the obituary I'd planned to submit to the local paper, but have opted instead to publish here. Obituary: Beverly Todd Bev -- my mom -- was a longtime caregiver, advocate, and dear friend to countless elderly in South Salem. Hers was a kind and generous spirit. She devoted much of her life to the welfare of others, giving wholly of herself and doing so always with great affection and humor. She was born Beverly Marie Steinberger in Silverton, July 23, 1938, the first child and only daughter of Art and Marie Steinberger. Her brothers called her Bevvy Buns, a nickname she grew fond of and wore proudly within the family circle as an adult. Bev attended St. Paul’s Elementary School in Silverton, Silverton High School and Marylhurst Co...
2 comments
Read more

Back at it

It's been some time since I've written. My mom died in February, and I haven't had the gumption to write much, other than a couple of feature stories for the paper and the occasional pithy email to a friend. Tonight, sitting in my favorite burger joint with a pile of fries in front of me, I dunk them into a deep pool of ketchup mixed with a hot sauce. That's how Mom liked 'em. My burger? The Spicy Hawaiian, a nod to my 808 connections. It's a brilliant combination of peppers and pineapple, a favorite on the Power Stop menu. I'm sure she'd have loved it, too. There's a bubbly beer with a lime in it. That's not a homage to anything. I just like beer. These past months, I've done little but work, search and apply for jobs. Two rejection letters have landed in my email this week. Search-and-apply has become a futile obsession. It's time for a break, at least until I hear back from all those applications still floating around out there. I am...
Post a Comment
Read more

Small town observations

Every day at noon, a siren blares from atop the city government building in Gunnison. Each time I hear it, I want to shout, “Yabba dabba doo!” even though it’s nowhere near happy hour. I’ve blurted this once or twice, only to elicit blank stares in response. Am I that old? Doesn’t anyone remember the The Flintstones? I hear that horn and imagine Fred sliding down the long neck of his gravel-quarry dino-dozer (which, thanks to Jurassic Park and the miracle of Google we all recognize now as riojasaurus). Quitting time! Fred flees, his fleet feet slapping toward a rack o’ ribs and a night of good times with Wilma, Barney, Betty and Dino. That’s Dino the dino, pronounced Deeno the dyno. Think that’s delusional? Another day, walking downtown near the source of the noontime wale, it struck me, a revelation it was, that the ramp up to full blast sounds just like the introduction to Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue, only this is a mega-air-raid, civil-defense siren solo rather than a clarinet, whic...
3 comments
Read more