Sweet Home Chicago

The fall came last night. Almost like the mystery brought by a new blanket of snow, this morning brought a breeze of golden glitter through the trees. The sky is grey and is hanging low in the sky and all the memories of pot roasts, pumpkin pies and football warm the spirit as much as the wind cools my cheeks. Fall is for family.

My aunt used to tell me that time would move more quickly with each passing year. I never understood how that could be so, but I believe it to be true. November is upon us.

This year I am spending all of the holidays with my family. My mother is especially excited about this and so am I. There is something special about spending the holidays with your mother, and while it may not be turnips at thanksgiving or the pez dispenser in your Santa stocking there is something about home. For me, it’s the sound of our space-heater igniting with a click click click and a whooosh. It's the sound of our creeky doors slamming and the thud thud thunk of someone running up or down the stairs. It's the creaking of the wooden floorboards, the ticking of the kitchen clock, the drip in the sink and the rattling of the windows. It's the feeling of safety that all of these elements together give you when you are home.

Perhaps by now you've realized that I've spent all of my years in one old turn-of-the-century flat in Chicago. I know it better than I know any other place in the world and though I have lived in New Orleans, Rome and North Carolina, Chicago has always been my home.

We have a reputation for being home bodies, we Midwesterners. I can't say it’s the weather; I've met a patch of ice with my rear-end a few too many times to appreciate the ice and snow. It's certainly not the smell, which is usually troublesome to identify and worse to inhale. I know it’s not the convenience, as inconvenient more aptly describes just about everything in Chicago. And it can't be the politics, humorous as they are. I think it’s more to do with the camaraderie and competition, the pristine gold coast and the poverty, and Chicago's unique ability to suspend its history and its future in the present.

A worry of mine is that my children may never know the sounds of safety and what it means to be home. To me, it’s a gift to travel the world and to find that there's no place like home.

The Real World

Very early Monday morning I returned to the states from a wonderfully fabulous 10-day vacation in the West Indies. I'm happy. It's cold here in North Carolina, a bitter 65 degrees and I resent that. My office was just as I had left it, as was my house. It's strange to think that so many things can change for you, while the rest of the world stays the same. I met lots of people on vacation. Some were from the UK, others from India and New York, which is a world in its own. We all had so many similar experiences and world views. I love the feeling of connectedness with other people who in many ways are very different, but in more ways are just the same.

I now have a headache, stuffy nose and generally feel as if someone has inflated my face. I suppose that's just another benefit of air-travel.

The Time Machine

Stopped at the traffic light in front of the gate, I watched the lights turn from green to yellow to red and then from red to green. The broadcaster on NPR spoke in a monotone voice that created a lulling backdrop to my morning commute. The air was cool and crisp and the sun gazed down upon me, but with a cold shoulder. It was the first day that felt like fall.

Sitting there, I waited perhaps no more than 15 or 20 seconds, but like most of us do at a red light I rushed it. I wanted the light to change, to go-go-go, to get to the next thing, to hurriedly push the accelerator on my Hyundai Accent and to wish it reacted as if it had more than half a cylinder, and then to allow my mind to wander to a time when I might drive a car that actually goes. I realized how much time I spend wishing for time to go by, waiting and wishing for those times when I want time to stop. Ironically, sooner or later it will.

I wished just about every second of the last 15 month deployment by. I cherished the changing of the seasons, semesters and any other marker of the passage of time. I laid in bed at night wishing for the deployment to be over so that I could have my life back. I blamed the president, the terrorists, the Army, and Joe. I never realized that I could have had my life back, had I chosen to live it.

I admit that life is hard to live without Joe or whoever your Joe may be. Sometimes it's downright impossible. But over the months I have learned that it is easier to live than to cry and its less painful to take charge of your life than to let it drag you as the days go by.

During the last deployment I remember telling someone that having Joe gone felt as if my body was being ripped in half. I stand by that, and this time I often wonder why the gaping hole I feel in my chest is not visible in the mirror. I know that without Joe I am not whole, but rather than trying to patch that hole I'm holding it and trying to remember that without feelings of sadness, I wouldn't know what it meant to be happy.

For this reason I have stopped allowing my mind to drag me down the path of life ahead of my time. I've stopped wishing for a time machine.