The Darbys: Go Home

. . . goes to visit his mummy . . . she feeds him well, his concerns he forgets them . . . and remembers being small . . . playing under the table and dreaming . . .

I consider myself very blessed to be able to go home. My first home. My real home. The place that my parents brought me to from the hospital. The place where I snuggled in my father's lap while sucking my thumb and holding my pink worn blanket. The place where I watched ants building their dirt fortresses and collected pine cones and jumped in mud puddles. The place where we always had puppies and stray cats and an occasional deer or fox in the yard. The place where I know there will always be plenty of comfort food and hugs and where almost nothing has changed.

If you have it, don't take it for granted. Being in Chicago has taught me so much about myself, and one of those things is that I grew up in a damn fine home. It wasn't the biggest or the nicest, but it was my safe place. And I've been craving it for a while now. I've dreamed of pulling up the beat-up driveway, seeing the old trees and Dad's garden, walking into a kitchen that always smells like freshly-baked brownies and cooked vegetables, and flipping through our local paper. Luckily, I was able to spend a few days there this past weekend, and all I've gotta say is that it was about time.

I grew up in the country outside of Corinth, Mississippi, which has to be the complete opposite of my current neighborhood. I loved that when I pulled up the hill that leads to my parents' home Mimi said, "Oh, Mommy, it's a park!" because she assumes all wide-open spaces must be some sort of park. Well, I guess a huge yard with lots of room to roam is a fantastic playground for Mimi and Mack. Here's one of the "rides" at the park:

And another one. How cool is my dad on the old blue tractor?

This one is getting framed, like, real big.

My fuzzy-headed child who hates to put anything in her hair fell in love with a knitted headband I bought for her for this winter, and she wouldn't take it off. Whatever, Meemers.

Just give her brown hair, and that could have been me about 29 years ago. I sat on this driveway and collected sticks and rocks and frogs and sorted them out just like she was doing.

But she had a really cool butterfly catcher that she quickly turned into a leaf and rock catcher.

"Oh, Mommy. The horsey is so hungry."

There were so many things that I had to relearn about being back in my small town. First of all, I had to figure out how to use the freaking bright lights on my car. Honestly, I've never had to use them. But there were no street lights once I left the city limits, and I now realize why my parents never wanted me to drive home late on our dark and windy road. Yikes. I also had to figure out how to sleep when it was completely quiet. I can always hear the bus outside our window or a car bumping music or an ambulance siren. Always. But at my parents' home it was so quiet that I could hear the clock ticking in the kitchen on the other end of the house.

I also had to get used to the gossip. And not necessarily bad gossip, but I had to remember how everybody knows everything about everybody. In a small town it is impossible to meet someone without being asked, "Where did you go to school? Who are your parents and siblings? Where did you go to church? Who did you run around with in high school?" People don't always mean to, but they are totally sizing up the victim. With those simple questions, one can learn another person's social status, income, morals, and basically whether that person is worth knowing or not. And I didn't need to let it get to me because it's customary, so I played along. Luckily for me, I have a pretty decent track record. :)

One nice thing about being in this small town was that I didn't have to fear for my life (or a ticket) every time I had to take a left turn. There was absolutely no traffic. The scariest thing about this town was the new turnabout by the elementary school. That's another fun thing. Someone here could say "the new elementary school" and everyone knows which one he's talking about. Or he owns "the downtown dry cleaners," or he goes to "the Presbyterian church."

Mom and I took the kids to Borroum's Drug Store (oldest and cutest drug store in Mississippi!) for lunch one day, and a few young guys walked in the door who looked like they had come straight out of the fields. They were tan and sporting jeans and work boots, and one of them turned to a lady who walked in after them and said, "Didn't I jest see you -- are you a' fallerin' me?" I completely melted. He may have had Skoal in his back pocket and you know the bed of his truck was full of beer cans and trash, but, my word, he was awfully charming. I can't quite say the same about a guy with a Midwestern accent . . .

A highlight of my trip was going to Hog Wild barbecue festival with a friend I've had since I was in first grade -- although there were some years we didn't speak because of a little disagreement on the playground where I attempted to cuss a lot and it just all came out wrong. Anyway, this consisted of fair rides around the square, some live music, and lots of barbecue and beer. It was a little strange to be back here and realize that I knew absolutely no one, and the few people I did know I had to take a second glance at because I haven't seen them in so long. And I love how they are lawyers and aldermen and dance teachers and policemen and accountants. How fun that we're all grown up with mortgages and children.

The main reason we took a trip back to the South was for a couple of parties for my newly engaged brother-in-law and his adorable fiance'. Her family is amazing, their friends are awesome, and I couldn't be happier for the sweet couple. By the way, this might be the coolest wedding around, so I will for sure have my camera handy for the big weekend.

The kiddos got to spend some quality cousin time while in Memphis. Ain't nothing but T-R-O-U-B-L-E in this wagon.