Home in Appalachia

Waking up on a sub-zero morning here on the west bank of Susquehanna, among the ancient ridges and the valleys of the mountains beyond Blue Ridge I am home. In my last entry I tried in vain to explain my personal concept of home. Only someone who has spent his life in travels in work and play would understand. I have often joked that I have been in a plane, train, boat, or car going somewhere all of my life. Often I think it began in the now fading memories of trips with my family to Florida, the Canadian Maritimes, and Mexico as a very small child. Being to young to remember much of that in the 1950's I find my powerful memories near the place I am now.

My extended vacation on Prince Edward Island even after a few months in the past seems almost remote. The emotional voice of my Mary there, here accent and semi-inquisitive Eh? bringing me back to mackerel at my wharf in the fall, and her warmth, her cooking and simplicity. This is truly something to miss. After "having it all", I often tell those who may listen about the beauty of simplicity-true freedom sans materialism and the rush for ephemeral success among the harried and strained world.

I will from now on consider this home, the "Oriental House", as my young son might have called it, the "camp".
Son says it is much like Westline, the old inn there. Perhaps this is the southern camp and that the northern. Westline is so far north and west of here it is really beyond Appalachia in some sense. This is remarkably similar to the interior of PEI, without the forever nearby sea. Not so much the French "Up West" there, more like "Out east" near the stunningly beautiful country near East Point and North Lake. There when the weather is right, the Cape Breton highlands can be seen. From the sea the mountains at the end of this chain meet the ocean. That is an unforgettable scene, especially as to my first trip there with my family around 1960, and later trips with wife 2.

My fellow campers here are Jason who is a railroad supervisor. He is suffering a painful divorce in his mid-30's and here we have commonality. The other pair of residents are the "sons of Dixie" as I call them. Seemingly forever travellers from the deep south, they are working temporarily near Harrisburg. The whole crew speak in a charming drawl and show the scars of a less than satisfactory life. The pair are father and son that I suspect are on the trail together out of real need, but there is simple bonding there that is touching. It saddens me as I feel lost as I hear them talking quietly for hours at night in their bunks with a closeness which for years has eluded me for years with my own children. Of course I have my trips with Joey to Arizona's rim, and Westline. Both kids to the fish hatchery in Huntsdale, and my one trip with them to Island Beach Park, New Jersey. It was there I have a photograph of my father on the beach, with me. It was his last trip to that special place before he left us.

There is the single trip I took with my daughter to Pittsburgh in 2006. She was still a little girl then. But no more.

Today is Friday and some locals may gather. We play an odd gambling game at the rustic little bar-much like the Pine Tree Inn of old. We pass a box of dice and lie about our scores and bet a quarter. I guess that's called "liars poker". I am not very good at it.

The deadline approaching with Mary for a return, the elusivity of my children, and my sisters problems place my decisions on "place" outside soulful serenity. Yes, where your heart is. But when it is scattered to the winds, all points nearly of any reachable place, I must find root in the solace of memory. But perhaps the constant chase, as my mother asked "what am I running from?", was rooted in the travels she and my father provided before I can remember. Always happier with any new vista and mission, no matter how painful, I now must decide on a home for an extended period. The questions are beyond resolution today. But it is only Friday. The weekend at Turkey Ridge and Ox Mountain, Appalachia.