These are a Few of My Favorite People

This week, I intended to write a cultural analysis stemming from my overuse of the word "favorite." In the midst of Oxford definitions, grammatical terms, and millennial woes, however, I abruptly changed gears to free write - by hand - about five of my truly favorite things, well, people: my siblings. I was drawn in by all the simple and sweet photos and posts on my Instagram and Facebook feeds celebrating National Siblings Day, and I thought I'd join in on the fun, because not only did the wedding I attended this past Saturday show me I used the word "favorite" too liberally, but also that we don't have enough opportunities to tell the people we love why we love them - and to tell the world about that love, too. Long-form tributes are relegated to toasts at weddings and eulogies at funerals. Well, my siblings all got married quite some time ago, and I'm not waiting til they are dead to remind them just how much they mean to me.

Reflections on the Road: Coal Towns

I drove over 246 miles on Saturday to attend a funeral. I-76, I-476, I-78, Rt. 901, Rt. 61, Rt. 54., Rt. 487, back and forth, winding through mountains with just enough color on them to still be beautiful.  - - Well, mountains are always beautiful, but you know what I mean. - - I traveled to this destination often as a child, nauseated by the twisting elevation. I remember once pulling off into the Ace Hardware parking lot, just in time to vomit into an empty orange juice bottle in the car. Now, in the driver's seat, I managed to keep nausea at bay. Coming from Philadelphia, my journey up through Pennsylvania was entirely different than the one from my Maryland childhood, but the destination was still the same: my Dad's hometown.

Insights from Infestation

Home. Is where the heart is. Is where you lay your head. Is wherever I’m with you.

Home. Possibly the finest of four-letter words. It is both a physical place and an untouchable feeling; four walls but also four (more or less) people.

Home should be the place one goes to be comfortable, to be safe, but mine has not been that place lately. For the last three weeks, I have lugged around a trash bag with some clothes, a book bag with a computer and toiletries and Moby-Dick, and now a tote bag with some groceries, a vest, and sneakers. I have worn and washed and reworn and rewashed the same few outfits, which were not always appropriate for the strangely humid October weather.  I have gone from apartment to farm to house to apartment to farm again, blessed to have hospitable friends and family. I have dog sat and baby sat and bought baked goods to earn my keep, to show my thanks, to just have a bed in which to sleep. I am exhausted and just want to go home. But, haven’t I been there this whole time?