Today I am 25.

I think I’m now allowed to have my quarter life crisis, but I’m pretty sure I’ve been having dilemmas and catastrophes on and off my whole life and therefore should keep myself together. Plus, who can have a crisis when there’s beautiful fall weather outside? I love, love, love fall weather. And fall in the south is wonderful. As long as my birthday continues to be in October, I won’t have an age crisis.

I spent much of this weekend hiding in the closet… but since our new house has a huge master bedroom closet, it was a wonderful place to hang out! Along with laying flooring in the actual bedroom, J also put new hardwood in the closet. The fresh paint and new floor did wonders for the smell the previous owners left us. It looks good enough to live in, or at least good enough for all my favorite belongings (shoes) to live in. Within an hour I had moved all of my clothes into the closet and hung them up on our custom racks J made just for me. I love that they expand all the way across the room. I think we utilized the space well. During that same hour of my moving boxes and bags and piles of clothes, J very proudly added a pair of pants to his side, claiming his area.

My side vs his side

I am starting to feel extremely proud- J and I have painted a lot of rooms in our big house, and now laid new (Grade 1, how fancy are we?!) hardwood floors. Things are slowly starting to come into place. I allowed myself to unwrap one box marked “fragile”, while I knew had decorations and flower vases in it, to set up around the house. Just those few items made it look so nice!

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.