In the 9th grade I had a writing teacher, who I loved, task us with writing an “I am from” entry. I remember writing things like “I am from a dancing kitchen, a dusty truck, a Joey in my pocket and 10.9’s”. They were all the things that described me at age 15. (Wow. I just realized, age 15, that was 10 years ago. I can’t believe I turn 25 this year) They still describe me, perfectly in fact, but I think the last 10 years deserves to be noted too.

At age 25 (that’s not old right?!?)

I am from… a plot of land that felt untouched- because as a child everything feels like it’s clean and pure.

I am from… Wildcat Country- where I learned to bleed blue with teammates who felt like family.

I am from… a break-up that lasted too long. Period.

I am from… a rental house with no hot water, little insulation, and a lot of fun, where I experienced the greatest girlfriend moments, that I miss much more than the house.

I am from… a long car ride to Colorado- that still brings tears to my eyes.

I am from… a summer of hotel living- where I could feel my life pivoting into a new stage.

I am from… a Mexico ghetto apartment that I wish I’d have enjoyed more at the time, and hadn’t focused so much on leaving.

I am from… “Button” and buttons everywhere.

I am from… a short hair cut- at which time the hair dresser said to me “You look like a fresh start”.

I am from… a blue wedding- a beautiful day in every way.

I am from… The South now (but not really) and don’t call me a Yankee.

I am from… a short stint in unemployment, or ‘the good ol’ days’, which actually sucked, but only less so than working in retail.

I am from… a little house with no closets, a remodeled kitchen, and a new paint color- things I thought I’d never miss, and am still trying not to.

I am from… GaterBait, Wally, Cheeto, Roxie… Kevin and Snorkel.

I am from… a lot of missing, and a place where everything seems very far away from where I want it to be.

I am from… a husband who loses his keys, but remembers to make coffee everyday that he doesn’t like to drink. A man who encourages me to do anything I want to, including write. The person who influences me to keep growing and changing even after everything feels settled into place.

I am from 2007-2013, and hopefully far beyond that.

We have officially moved over to our new house now, with almost all of the essentials moving with us, (the coffeepot, kitties, and bed), but we don’t have internet yet. It’s startling to realize how attached I am to constantly checking Facebook, Pinterest, Gmail, etc. On Sunday I really wanted to lounge around and watch a movie, even without Netflix I knew our DVD collection had been moved, but without a TV, DVD player or computer, I had no way to play the DVDs. So instead I wandered into the kitchen to organize the disaster I’ve created  by throwing the boxes haphazardly into cabinets (there are at least 3 cabinets with cups in them because I’m not sure yet where their permanent home should be). What I found was all the recipe books I’d been given; some when I first moved out of my parents home and others when I got married. I’ve browsed through them several times when I’ve wanted a specific recipe my family uses, but never for any other purpose. If I needed a general recipe, one my family doesn’t make, I simply Googled one. But without internet to occupy my time I found myself flipping through the cook books.

At first I found myself wondering, who even has cookbooks anymore? I certainly never use these. And then I thought, these are pretty interesting, in an antique way, something you might collect that are no longer used. A cute assortment to show off in your kitchen to add a touch of country living, like people have old butter churns and milk bottles. After awhile though I found some recipes that looked pretty good, and was something that I’d never made before. I grabbed a pen and paper to write down the page number (and of course a glass of wine, too). Soon, my paper was full, and I was actually reading each page of the cookbook.

“This dish is fun to eat right out of the skillet (although a nicer platter may be used for company).” Someone actually wrote this in the cookbook! Like they were explaining to their daughter how to cook this recipe, and that she should use her nice Corning Ware when someone is visiting. I just found it so hilarious. There were several entries like this, obviously little old women explaining how they made their favorite family dish, step by step, to someone who couldn’t cook. I can imagine them being asked to contribute a recipe to their local cook book and realizing that the best recipes they know aren’t written down, and they’re probably thinking that the people that buy this cookbook, don’t really know how to cook, so their recipe should be simply laid out step by step for the poor city folks that don’t know how to make apple strudel or homemade noodles.

I carefully marked all my favorite pages and stacked them nicely in a cabinet on their designated shelf. I had no idea I’d find such joy in old recipes, but I’ll definitely be saving these in a safe place.

My people own black shirts with bright neon yellow letters across the chest that say “Loma Goes Hollywood”. They’re dated from so far back you don’t see too many people wearing them around anymore. In fact it only gets brought up when “Hit That Dive” goes to Bar M, or when Patrick Swayze died. Other than that, not too many people talk about Loma, given that fewer people live there than a Walmart employs. Loma is in fact a type of town that most people have forgotten existed, or didn’t even still know were around. I’m sure there are places like this all around the United States, but Loma happens to be one of my little places.

I feel blessed to have grown up around towns like this. Maybe I didn’t think so at the time, because I could never get away with doing anything since everyone knew what car all the kids drove, but I feel that way now. I can feel it when I return to those places now, like curling down into an old blanket that smells like home. It’s not just the fact that everyone knows everyone, or you’re related to everyone, or your family owned the grocery store (which Loma doesn’t have by the way) it’s way more than that. For me there was always a sense of safety. Not safety that nothing bad was going to happen there, but safety like… if you forgot your credit card and didn’t have enough cash to pay for the gas you just pumped, the person behind you in line would be able to help you out, because they’re your neighbor, and they actually owed you for the eggs you brought over last week. Safety and Tradition. Usually towns like Loma are known for being old fashioned, but the knowledge to make your grandma’s apple strudel, and dress chickens (or hypnotize chickens!) or the best products to buy from the dollar store to clean your stove, is some of the most useful knowledge I have. I wouldn’t have gained any of it growing up anywhere else.

Living 1,000 miles from home, I don’t just miss the place itself, although a person does miss where they hold their childhood memories, I miss the small towns that you can only get to through gravel roads. Not many census signs read under 1000 or 500, but I still know where to find a few.

I know I’m one of like a billion Americans that hate their job, and people hate to read whiny shit about how unhappy someone else is, so in contrast: I hate my job, and it’s really humorous. It’s more that I suffer from boredom at work instead of hatred anyway. And boredom, similar to my short stint in unemployment (the good ole days), makes me do some really weird things.

Unemployment made me talk to the cats too much, become obsessed with my step class teachers life, know the rotation of workers at the post office (and who I didn’t want to deal with), and get overly excited about getting to wear pants somewhere. Looking back on it I realize a lot of things like; talking to the cats was not that weird, I was in really good shape from step class, and how did James deal with me while I was in this stage?

Work on the other hand has made me do other weird things:

1. I REALLY enjoy checking the junk mail in my inbox: When I’m sitting at my desk with nothing to do, receiving an email is about the only thing I have to look forward to while the hours drag on. But I don’t really receive that many emails a day (especially not work related ones) so I take joy in checking the junk folder to see what I can find. I’ve since purchased a lot of very unnecessary things, and probably also given my computer a few viruses.

2. I plan months in advance: I have so much free time to sit and plan I already have my Halloween costume ordered, I have a list of who I am sending my Christmas cards to, and I know what I’m writing in my Christmas letter. I’m basically just waiting for the next 2 months to pass by so I can update the C-Mas card.

It’s not that no one told me real life was hard, it’s just that I thought it didn’t apply to me.

J and I have found ourselves in an all too familiar scene; living around boxes. The decorations are taken off the walls and carefully wrapped, things you don’t think you’ll need (like stamps) but then of course have to find have become impossible to locate, and we’re almost to the stage of digging in boxes for clothes in the morning. We’re in transition with our move between our “little house” and our “big house”. Currently we’re living in the little home while finishing up painting rooms in the big home. So far we’ve painted the master bedroom, master bathroom, master closet, J’s office, my office, the guest room, and the upstairs bathroom. Those were the rooms we planned on painting before we moved in anyway, in addition to the kitchen, (which is currently green). Then we were hoping to take a Friday off and have a long weekend to move over our bed and kitchen stuff and get it all set up how we wanted it. But with all good plans, they change.

We anticipated having 1 house guest this weekend for the upcoming Sudsfest at the local museum, but yesterday we were informed we’ll have 5 additional people and 1 dog coming to stay. With only 1 bathroom in the little house, and no fenced in back yard, there’s no way we can make that work. This makes the end of our week crunch time on moving. So today we’re packing up as many necessities as we can and loading it up in the back of the cars to move.

Hopefully we can get most things unpacked and in some order before our guests arrive. It’d really be best if we all didn’t have to camp on the floor on air mattresses, but then again, who doesn’t want to relive a little bit of their childhood and pull all-nighters in the living room ‘forts’? I think this might even work out for the best; for one, it’s forcing J and I to move. Otherwise we’d drag out bringing the boxes over and going through the hassle since we already have somewhere to live that isn’t going anywhere. No one is kicking us out, and the little house isn’t even up for sale yet. There’s a few more projects left on that house anyway, and it’ll be easier to complete when it’s not full of our stuff. Plus I’m extremely excited to have some guests come stay with us. Sometimes I feel like a huge introvert because I don’t want to be around people, and other times I’m dying for someone to come see me. Recently we haven’t had any new faces show up, so this weekend should be super fun!

I have married a man who trades objects quickly. If you don’t like something; sell it, trade it, scrap it, and get a new one. It’s a great theory when your old computer breaks and you want to use the money towards a new one… or you don’t like the lawn mower you purchased (used) so you trade it for a different one. This especially applies to our cars. J is always saying “Everything I own is for sale”, (with the exception of his wife’s stuff). Vehicles, and items, are always rotating quickly through our home.

Our current sale item is the red/black/green pickup, which I’ve dubbed “LadyBug”. LadyBug moved me from Kentucky to Alabama, with only two calls to a tow truck. LadyBug and I have a very love/hate relationship, where I’m normally hating the truck. It seems to have left us stranded often. Including a trip we made with a ton of rocks in the bed where we had to walk a mile home to get the spare tire. It’s also left J and his dad stranded late at night, while J was also suffering from a recent concussion.

Although I will be glad to see LadyBug go, I will be sad to be losing GaterBait’s favorite vehicle. Like all things “GB” she showed her love in a weird way… like puking in the cab of the truck while J made one of the many trips from Alabama to Kentucky. But she must have loved the truck, because any time the doors were left open, she’d crawl up inside and sleep on the bench seat. Her adorable little fuzzy tail leaving hairs all over J’s seat, which he’d complain about on his pants later.

It is a sad thing but this week we are saying goodbye. Goodbye LadyBug- The truck that although left us often stranded, bonded our marriage so that we can survive any car catastrophe. Goodbye LadyBug- GaterBait’s often outside bed, in which she loved to curl up on in the sunshine. I hope you are replaced with a more (reliable) memorable truck, although your legacy will be hard to live up to.