Places I’ve lived since I was 17:
La Crosse, WI;
New Haven, CT.
(I could throw in six months in Washington, DC, too.)
What’s the point?
I remember growing up and thinking that I had to get out of the St. Paul suburbs, and feeling so grown up to live in an apartment in Minneapolis, getting around by bus and bicycle. How scared I was walking through Hyde Park in Chicago, full of the fear that the University tried to instill. Early morning walks with my daughter around Schenectady. The marshes along the Mississippi river en route to work in La Crosse. And back to East Coast life in and around New Haven.
And yet, for all that, I do miss my home town. Roseville, MN, far better than I thought it was, and still tightly knit in my past. These days, I participate in a Facebook group that pokes my memories every day or two. Something, or someone I remember.
Just a thought for the evening.
“Of all the stupid things I could have thought, this was the worst/I started to believe that I was born at 17…”