Home, Home, Home

It's homecoming time. Peter comes home from his Coming of Age trip this evening. And I'm in my hometown waiting to pick him up.

It feels like puzzle pieces in place to see friends who remember my children as babies or earlier--remember my pregnant belly, and to see my extended family, but somehow being here this time is a little hard.

I see the "stick" that I planted as a six foot start looking like an old shade tree. The vines I planted as little "good luck growing" starts covering a lattice on our old deck. The swings at the old house are still set in little stair-steps--the way we hung them for our little stair-step boys.

Maybe some of the shield of regular life has been scraped off by all the growing my kids are doing. Becoming a teen, becoming an adult, leaving behind childhood; whatever it is, it's got me nostalgic and emotional.

Poor Peter, I'm sure when he gets off that bus today I'm going to burst out sobbing.

My oldest son, my mom and I went to church at Unity Unitarian in St. Paul this morning. This is the church that started Laurel Hallman on her journey. This is a really influential church in the policy governance work many UU churches are doing. But, oh my gosh, this is a lovely church. It's beautiful. And the service was also beautifully crafted. I loved sitting and singing and just listening to the sermon, the readings, hearing the great jazz. If I lived anywhere near, I would surely think about joining this community.

And now I'm just driving around, doing errands, waiting for more visitors later. I'm heading down the hill I remember tearing down on my little blue trike as a three-year-old. Going past the driveway where I held the school patrol flag as a 10-year-old--not letting in those nasty rule-breaking drivers. All the old, flooding in, no matter what I throw back at it.

We had lefse for an afternoon snack. We'll have tuna ring salad tonight. My kids tell me my Minnesota accent in completely back. That's OK. I'm 42 now, I can be who I really am. I have forgotten how to bag my groceries; we don't do that on the West Coast. I have forgotten that there are no beer and wine sales in the grocery stores here; vestiges of old blue laws. But, I can say "oh ya, you betcha" and enjoy my tuna ring salad. It's a part of me.

Like my son. A part of me, coming home today. I just might go mad waiting! Three more hours.