When in Rome (Georgia)

Back to blogging with my talented friends!  Each week, one of us chooses a topic and we all post a blog entry on that topic, usually on Thursdays.  (Usually we are on time.  Usually.  Ok, mostly.  Sometimes?  Don’t judge me.)

Here are the links to the other fabulous blogs:

Merryland Girl           

Froggie 

Moma Rock

 

            This week, Froggie chose the topic, and she said:  I would have never imagined . . .   Here’s my take:

            A few weeks ago – and for the first time in my entire life – I fired a gun.  A .22 caliber semi-automatic handgun, to be exact.  I fired that gun 50 times, shooting at a paper target posted on a board at a shooting range nestled among the gentle hills of Middle Tennessee. 

            Before that day, I’d never touched a loaded gun, let alone fired one.  I grew up with a gun in the house; after all, my Dad was a Chicago Police sergeant and, as such, he owned a service revolver.  But I never actually touched the gun.  I rarely saw it; Dad did a phenomenal job of keeping “work” separate from “home.”  But I knew the revolver was there.  I knew where it was kept, and I knew that location was securely locked.  I also knew to go nowhere near the gun, to respect it, to see it for what it was:  part of my Dad’s job – and a deadly weapon, too.

            That latter fact was firmly and sadly reinforced for me during my childhood when a neighborhood boy (someone just a few years older than I) accidentally shot and killed another neighborhood boy while showing off his dad’s gun.  I knew both boys only slightly, but it didn’t matter.  My fear of guns was set.  What had been indifference and a healthy respect morphed into full-on terror. 

            And that fear remained strong throughout my life.  Living mainly in Chicago and Northern Illinois, guns were not much of a “thing” in my life.  The bulk of my friends (unless police officers) didn’t own any firearms, and they didn’t go hunting or to the shooting range.  Until quite recently, one could not legally conceal and carry a gun within the city limits of Chicago (and then the Supreme Court stepped in and pointed out the violation of the 2^nd Amendment and the unconstitutional statute went away).  The change of the law meant little to me.  I didn’t know anyone who rushed out to purchase a weapon (if any did, they didn’t talk to me about it).  Other than noticing the “no guns allowed” emblems that began appearing absolutely everywhere, I didn’t give guns too much thought.  I had no reason to do so.

            I didn’t think much about guns when we moved to the South, either, at least not at first.  My fear of guns didn’t change, even as I met people who grew up hunting and shooting and owning multiple weapons.  I didn’t want a gun, didn’t want to be around one.  Although I sensed I was more completely surrounded by firearms than I had been in Illinois, I put it out of my mind – except when I shopped at Walmart and walked past the Sporting Goods section, where rifles hung prominently.  I just kept on walking. 

            It was during another walk in Tennessee when I began to think about guns.

            My friend Kym and I were taking one of our morning power strolls through our subdivision, when Kym casually mentioned that her moms’ group from church was going to take a handgun safety class, and would I like to join them? 

            I’ll be honest:  my first thought was, “What did she just say?”  My second thought involved what seemed to me to be the irony of church moms firing guns.  And then, quickly, without much more processing, I thought, “Perhaps it’s time.” 

            As we walked the cul de sacs near our subdivision’s main pool, I considered the reasons not to take the class:  My fear.  My lack of desire to own a gun.  I didn’t want a handgun, so the class seemed unnecessary.  And “fun” didn’t seem like the right adjective for a day at a handgun training class, either:  how could spending the day around guns be fun?  But then I thought about the reasons to take the class.  Guns are everywhere, particularly where I live.  What if I stumbled across a gun someday?  I had no idea how to hold one or fire one or load one, no idea how to operate a safety, to check whether the gun was loaded, no idea how to stay safe around a gun.  Might that information be helpful?  Perhaps.

            I thought more about my fear.  I don’t like being afraid of anything; no one does.  But here I had a chance to confront a fear, safely and in a controlled environment.  I could take the class, hang out with Kym, face my apprehension, and maybe learn something in the process.  So I told Kym, “Yes,” and I filled out the (extensive) paperwork and wrote my check.

            Had I ever imagined I’d do these things?  No.  But here’s my real “I would have never imagined” moment:  I?  Enjoyed the class.  I enjoyed firing the gun.  I?  Had fun.  I never, ever, ever would have imagined I’d ever feel – or admit – to such a thing.

            I’ve struggled articulating why I so enjoyed the experience.  Part of it involves the instructor, Dennis, a man who focused us on safety but who did so with humor and patience.  Then, too, there was my class, an all-female group of twenty.  It heartened me to see women supporting and encouraging and cheering and congratulating each other.  (That’s too rare, in my experience.)  And there’s also the fact of how I began the day knowing absolutely nothing about guns, but by the end of the day, I felt completely comfortable loading and handling and aiming a gun and shooting at a paper target.  In fact, when I finished my fifty rounds, I’d wanted to fire fifty more.  The word that came to mind was empowered.  Not in the “look-out-I-have-a-loaded-gun-gansta” way, but in the “yay-me-I-just-learned-a-new-skill” way. 

            Maybe most of all, I felt stronger, because I’d started the day very much afraid of something, and ended the day feeling in control of that fear.  Does that mean I want to be on the wrong end of a firearm?  Of course not.  I’d still be terrified – that won’t ever change.  But it does mean that I want to learn more, to take more classes and to get to the range and become even more comfortable with my grip and my stance and my aim.  It means I want the legal right to carry a gun, should I so choose (and should I pass the TBI background check).

            When I posted my target photo on Facebook, more than one friend said to me, “I can’t picture you firing a gun.”  I couldn’t disagree – until I actually did fire a gun.  Now, I can easily picture doing it again, and I look forward to the chance. 

            In the meantime, I take an occasional glance at the paper target, the one now hanging on the bulletin board on the back of my pantry door, and I feel gratitude for Kym’s invitation (and her friendship!) and pride that something that once scared me now empowers me. 

            The fact my newly learned skill makes my husband sleep with one eye open is really just a bonus, I swear.

           

           

If at First You Don't Succeed . . . Meh, Never Mind

Back to blogging with my talented friends!  Each week, one of us chooses a topic and we all post a blog entry on that topic, usually on Thursdays.  (Usually we are on time.  Usually.  Ok, mostly.  Sometimes?  Don’t judge me.)

Here are the links to the other fabulous blogs:

Merryland Girl

Froggie 

Moma Rock
 

            This week, Merryland Girl chose the topic, and she asked:  What are FIVE movies that should never, ever, EVER be re-made?  Talk about why for each of them.  Here’s my take:

            If you know me, you know I am not a “movie person.”  I struggle to sit through an entire movie (adult-onset ADD, anyone?) and going to the movies is a punishment for me (a topic for another post, perhaps, but it involves mouth noises).  But, of course, I have a list of movies I truly love and would never, ever want to see re-made.

            But as I thought about those movies, I realized my post would be very short, as my reasons for not wanting those movies re-made would be the same for each:  they got it perfectly right the first time.  Right casting, right script, right direction, right right right.  Sixteen Candles?  Don’t even think of touching it.  Zoolander?  Absolute brilliance.  Casablanca?  The Usual Suspects?  The King and I?  Done completely right the first time.

            And, so, I decided to “flip the script” (ha!) and do the opposite of what Merryland Girl asked.  I’m putting forth a list of five movies I wish would be re-made and the reasons why.  And here we go:

(1)            Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil:  One of my top ten favorite books EVER . . . and an abomination of a movie.  Clint Eastwood should have been arrested, convicted, and imprisoned for what he did to that gem of a book.  The casting?  Horrific.  John Cusack?  Really?  I love John Cusack, but he always plays the same character (even when that character isn’t the one written).  John Berendt, the narrator of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil is worldly and rather smooth.  John Cusack?  Is not.  Berendt skillfully inserted himself into the Savannah social scene and didn’t play sides.  Cusack’s character?  Did not.  Worse, Eastwood cast his daughter, Allison, as the “heroine,” but (a) she could not for the life of her consistently retain a Southern accent throughout the film; and (b) THERE IS NO HEROINE IN THE BOOK!  The only reason I watched the entire movie was (a) Kevin Spacey was fan-flippin’-tastic as Jim Williams; and (b) the stupid videotape got stuck in the VCR and would not let me either fast forward or eject until it reached the end.  I so wish someone would re-make this movie in a manner true to the book and to the beauty and quirk that is Savannah.  But only if Kevin Spacey reprises his role.

(2)            The Natural:  Yes, another book-turned-film that made me cry for all the wrong reasons.  I read Bernard Malamud’s classic novel in high school and absolutely loved it.  The story is dark and compelling, the hero is no hero.  And then along comes director Barry Levinson and actor Robert Redford and suddenly we have a movie meant to give us the feels, complete with a classic hero running bases in a shower of exploding field lights.  Gag.  Had Levinson or Redford read the actual novel, they would have realized the title was meant to be ironic, as Roy Hobbs is both inherently talented and greatly flawed.  I cannot argue that the cinematography was beautiful, and I enjoyed the soundtrack a great deal.  But someone needs to make a film out of the actual book.  Please.

(3)            Little Shop of Horrors:  I can hear Merryland Girl’s head exploding from here.  She loves this movie (it may even be on her list of movies not to re-make).  I wanted to love this movie, I really did.  I mean, it starred Rick Moranis!  It featured Steve Martin (one of my all-time fave actors/writers/comedians) as a sadistic dentist!  I don’t remember what, exactly, I hated, but I remember feeling the hate and I remember not liking anything but Steve Martin.  I stayed to the end only because I was with a group and didn’t have another ride home.  I cannot honestly say I want this movie to be re-made, but I hold out hope that perhaps someone can create a version that doesn’t make me want to poke out my own eyes with the straw from my giant movie soda.

(4)            Joe vs. The Volcano:  See #3, above.  Wanted to like it, thought it was ridiculously stupid, stayed only because I was with other people (and cell phones didn’t exist back then, so I couldn’t go in the lobby and complain about it on Facebook while I waited).  To me, when you combine Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan, magic should happen.  But it did not.  Stupid, stupid film.  You know what, don’t bother re-making this one, Hollywood!  I don’t think even Kevin Spacey or Steve Martin could save it.

(5)            Shortcuts:  So, esteemed author Raymond Carver authored nine short stories and collected them under the name Shortcuts.  And then esteemed director Robert Altman took said collection and dragged it out into the WORLD’S LONGEST MOVIE EVER.  Oh my gosh, it was actually painful.  This time, I did leave the theater because I could not sit still and process my excessive anger.  The movie dragged on and on and on, and though I do not remember much about the film, I remember disliking every single character and every single plot line.  Funny thing:  I had not read the short story collection prior to viewing, but I read it after – and I liked it!  Thus, Mr. Altman should be verbally berated for this film, and someone else should give it a shot.  (Humble suggestion to anyone who tries:  cut the film off before the three-hour mark.  Thank you.)

So, there you have it.  Curious to hear which movies, if any, you, my Five Loyal Readers would love to see re-made and why.  Perhaps I hated them, too.  Or maybe I can give them a whirl and see how long I last before I throw the remote at the TV and call it a night. 

What I Did on My Summer Vacation

Back to blogging with my talented friends!  Each week, one of us chooses a topic and we all post a blog entry on that topic, usually on Thursdays.  (Usually we are on time.  Usually.  Ok, sometimes.)

Here are the links to the other fabulous blogs:

Merryland Girl

Froggie 

Moma Rock

            As you, my Five Loyal Readers, know, my fellow bloggers and I took a summer hiatus from blogging to focus on some other areas of our lives.  Blogging is fun, and I’ve been grateful for the opportunity to write alongside my talented co-bloggers, but it’s also a commitment, complete with a deadline.  I will admit I didn’t miss the deadline, even though I did miss the writing. (Some of my co-bloggers did post during this time, and you can see those posts on their respective blogs.)

            But we are back, and this week, Moma Rock asked us to write about what we did while we were on our break. 

            I had lofty goals, I did.  I mentioned a few before we signed off all those months ago.  I even completed a few.  I reviewed my friend Tommy’s book chapter and gave him some feedback.  I took the 11 for an occupational therapy evaluation and found a time for her appointments (I’ve yet to figure out how I will fit these appointments alongside swimming and her other therapy, but I will. ).  I met with two members of the middle school staff and talked about the 11’s IEP (and then the 11 threw me a curve ball and decided to stay in the elementary school .  . . but I got it done!).  We sent the eldest daughter off to Berlin (though I never did read the info packet – am I a bad parent?).  I managed to mail some of those greeting cards; of course, most were late (progress not perfection!) and I’ve completely blown my September mailings to date.  I did some house cleaning, though that has always been, still remains, and always will be an uphill struggle.  I cleaned house in other ways, too:  I finally got a Tennessee driver’s license, turning in my Illinois card without a look back.  I feel like an official resident of the Great State of Tennessee. 

            I did finish my book reviews and then did a few more.  I also accepted a wonderful invitation to become a full-fledged reviewer at Chick Lit Central, so I’ve read a lot and have another pile of reviews to write.  Along those lines, I joined a neighborhood book club, one that meets once a month.  I’ve also started to do other activities with some of the neighborhood women, so I’ve been getting out more, something both necessary and good.

            One friend and I have taken to walking every weekday, a nice five-mile trip through our subdivision.  I also walk at least one weekend morning, usually a slightly longer walk past the middle and high schools.  I regularly hit the Nashville Flea Market (third weekend of the month), and one in Shelbyville, too. 

            And then there were the things I did not plan but which happened, both bad and good.  My beloved cat Uncle Jesse died (I don’t want to talk about it), and so I spent a large chunk of my summer grieving (and I’m not done).  To ease the pain, we adopted a kitten, one who looks frighteningly similar to Nikki Sixx.  We’ve been calling her Squee because she doesn’t meow but instead squeaks.  She’s sweet and naughty and she’s helped distract me, but I still miss my Jesse.  (Also, a kitten?  Not at all helpful with keeping the house clean.)  On the much happier flipside, I’ve also become a fragrance consultant for Gold Canyon Candles, something I never intended when I accepted an invitation to attend a candle mixer at a friend’s home.  I love love love home décor and a nice-smelling (if untidy) home, and I thought, “Why not?”  I hosted my launch mixer this week and had a great time, and I look forward to hosting many more.

            And, of course, I took some time to think and reflect and make sure I wanted to keep writing the blog, because life has become quite full in so many ways.  My blogging girls and I kept in touch during our hiatus because, underneath it all, we have become friends, and that won’t change, regardless of whether we write together.  But we want to, and we will.  And here we are.

            I suppose if I learned any lesson from our break, it’s that we make plans and the Universe laughs.  I started my break with the loftiest of goals.  I achieved some, but not all, and to assume I’d check off every box was a bit naïve of me.  Life is never so neat (kinda like my house). 

            All of which is to say that I’m glad to be back, but I’m sure I will still have weeks where I post late or not at all, or where my post is “meh” at best.  My house will be messy (though it will smell great!), I’ll forget to sign a field trip form, I’ll finally have the emotional energy to find a spot for Jesse’s ashes.  And I’ll get around to editing my book, I will.  All in good time.

            In the meantime, I’ll light a candle for Jesse . . . and then try to keep the kitten from knocking it off the table, grateful for my messy life and for having this forum in which to share it. 

There Comes a Time in Every Blogger's Life Where . . .

Still blogging away alongside three other talented bloggers.  Each week, one of us chooses a topic and we all post a blog entry on that topic, usually on Thursdays.  (Usually we are on time.  Usually.  Ok, sometimes.)

Here are the links to the other fabulous blogs:

Merryland Girl

Froggie 

Moma Rock

            This week, I chose the topic, and I said:  Write about a guilty pleasure.

            I chose this subject as a sort of “flip” of a reader’s choice topic submitted by my friend Dawn, who suggested “Lifetime movies.”  Dawn knows I love Lifetime movies.  And I know Dawn loves Lifetime movies.  (Dawn and I have spent hours talking about Lifetime movies.)  Originally, I was going to actually write about Lifetime movies, but then a certain events sent me in another direction.  So, instead, I’m going to write about another guilty pleasure:  this blog.

            About a year and a half ago, Froggie invited me to join her blogging group, consisting of her, Merryland Girl (Melissa), and Moma Rock (Sara).  Each week, we’ve alternated choosing a topic, and we’ve always been free to elaborate as we wish (our only “restriction” was to shy away from marriage- and kid-heavy topics, as not everyone in the group is married/a parent).  I was (and remain) grateful and excited and flattered for the invitation, and I have thoroughly enjoyed the experience.  I’ve had my moments of stress, of course; sometimes, writing on a subject I didn’t choose was difficult, but it was almost always fun and rarely, if ever, felt like a chore (a few times, but not too often).  At worst, I’d face a week where I wasn’t sure where I’d find the time to write, and some weeks I didn’t.  I hated those weeks; I felt I’d let my blog women down.  Most weeks, though, I relished my writing time, and I really enjoyed reading the feedback from my Five Loyal Readers.  I learned as much about them as I did about myself through these posts, and I took great pride in their kind, encouraging words, and from the fact they cared at all about anything I’d have to say.  (Love you.)

            And therein lies the pleasure.  But where’s the guilt?

            The guilt comes from the weeks where I didn’t do something else I needed to do but still spent time blogging.  Maybe it only takes me an hour or so to write a post, but that time adds up and, sometimes, I truly should have spent it elsewhere.

            Like editing my own book.

            Or reading my friend Nancy’s manuscript (I swear I am getting it done.  I swear.)

            Or reading my friend Tommy’s sample chapter.  (Ditto.)

            Or finishing book reviews to which I’ve committed and reading new books so I can review even more.

            Or mailing the now ridiculously belated cards to friends and family recognizing birthdays and holidays I missed.

            Or setting up my middle daughter’s occupational therapy.  And registering her for middle school – complete with the dreaded IEP meeting.

            Or reading my eldest daughter’s study abroad packet.

            Or cleaning the house, so my husband’s head doesn’t explode and we don’t all die from cat hair inhalation. 

            So, yes, I guess it’s fair to say blogging is a guilty pleasure.

            And, like most guilty pleasures – peanut butter M&Ms, naps, even Lifetime movies – at some point, you need to take a break and do some real work (and eat some real food.  Damn you, Mars candy).

            Yes, I’m taking a break from blogging, or at least from blogging with my blog group.  I’m hoping to take a sabbatical of about a month, or roughly half the kids’ summer vacation.  In that time, I plan to work on my book and the manuscripts and the book reviews and my kids’ stuff, and maybe even some housework.  I may write a post here or there in that time (sometimes I can’t not write), but for at least a few weeks, I won’t commit to anything.  I need a break from the “deadline” inherent in blogging in a group.  I’m too Type A and conscientious to just blow off deadline after deadline, and I have too much respect for my blog women, who are as busy (or busier) than I but who still find the time to get everything done without missing a beat.

            I don’t know what things will look like when the blog group returns, as I don’t know whether we are all on the same page as to taking a break and/or continuing on down the road (like any group, we don’t always communicate well).  I am hopeful it will get worked out, one way or another.

            In the meantime, I urge you to continue checking in with Melissa’s fabulous book blog/website, Chick Lit Central, and maybe even check out some of the other blogs I suggested a few weeks ago.  (I don’t know whether my co-bloggers will continue to blog separately, but I’d recommend checking in now and then; the links are above.)

            Or, if you need a break from reading blogs, I wholeheartedly recommend grabbing a bag of peanut butter M&Ms and heading to the couch for a Lifetime movie marathon.  And when you feel the nap coming on, give in guiltlessly – because we all deserve a guilty pleasure now and then.

           

           

 

Take Me Home, Country Roads

Still blogging away alongside three other talented bloggers.  Each week, one of us chooses a topic and we all post a blog entry on that topic, usually on Thursdays.  (Usually we are on time.  Usually.  Ok, sometimes.)

Here are the links to the other fabulous blogs:

Merryland Girl

Froggie 

Moma Rock

            Merryland Girl chose this week’s topic, and she said:  “I can't.”  Keep in mind, it's not a self-bashing exercise.  Here’s my take:

            It took me awhile to come up with a subject this week.  I mean, there are plenty of things I can’t do or can’t comprehend or can’t tolerate, etc., and I am happy to admit to and write about those.  But I wanted to stay true to Melissa’s wish that we not self-bash, so I passed.  And, anyway, I kinda hate when people dwell on that which they cannot do; it’s a downer.  And when they do dwell, their friends are all compelled to be like, “Awww, you can do it!” even though they really can’t.  (I’m looking at you, Facebook.) 

            I ran a bunch of topics through my head, but nothing felt right.  Until the morning late last week when I was walking down my new street in the burning sun and a strange thought hit me:  I can’t believe I live in Tennessee.  Even though I’ve been here for a few months (and a few months last year), I can’t believe I live here.  I mean live here, live here, like, my address is here.  I own property here.  My cars have Tennessee plates.  My kids go to school here.  Live here like that.  Even a few months in, it still seems weird.  Kind of surreal, actually.

            I feel this way even though in many ways living in Tennessee isn’t that much different than living in Illinois.  I still do mostly the same things.  I spend much of my time the same way I used to and with the same people:  my husband and my kids.  I get the kids ready for school and take care of them after.  I run errands, like grocery shopping.  I blog.  But there are differences when I do these things, noticeable ones.   My not-very-huge town has four WalMarts – FOUR – and only one Target.  I grocery shop at places like Kroger and Publix (so nice!) instead of Jewel, a chain that does not exist down here.  I now drive 30 miles each way to go to Whole Foods, and 35 miles to go to Trader Joe’s – as opposed to just three or four miles in Chicago (Evanston had two Whole Foods within a few miles of each other).  These aren’t Earth-shattering differences, but I notice.  Of course, I also notice that almost everyone has a Southern accent.  For a while, I feared I’d pick it up, but now I doubt it.  I don’t really hear it anymore, and it’s hard to undo decades of the nasal Chicago drone.  But the nine has a twang that grows daily.  She picked it up at school.

            And then there’s the school.  The kids’ Tennessee school is really different from the one in Illinois.  The new school has a big parking lot with a drop off and pick up loop; at our old (old) school, parents had to park on side streets and walk over and wait for dismissal (which is super fun when there’s eight inches of snow on the ground and it’s -10).  My kids receive free breakfast and lunch every day, including on the rare half day, and they receive free bus service both ways, as do all kids, regardless of their address.  (We live fairly close to the middle and high schools, yet the bus will take them.  This is contrary to Evanston, where kids who lived near the school had to get there and home on their own.)  And the differences extend beyond logistics.  I didn’t have to threaten to sue anybody to get services for the eleven, and she is no longer begging me to home school her.  Interestingly, the teachers and principal place a huge emphasis not only on educating the kids as to reading and math, but also as to raising proper young ladies and gentlemen.  My children must say “yes, sir” and “yes, ma’am.”  I’ve never seen anything like it – and I spent twelve years in Catholic school. 

            I pick them up at the bus stop and we walk the two blocks home.  Our house is different, too.  It’s significantly larger than our house in Illinois – and yet it cost a lot less, both in mortgage payments and in property taxes.  Our home is a new build in a new neighborhood within a huge, already-established subdivision.  Our old house was new (a gut rehab, so the foundation wasn’t so new) but it was located in an old neighborhood and not a subdivision.  New houses are springing up around me (ugh) and I’m still meeting the neighbors and will continue to do so as the houses are finished.  Most seem nice, and many are from somewhere else, which helps me feel less “Yankee go home” (though no one has ever said that – at least not to my face).  Overall, people are nice and polite, even when driving, which is mind blowing to me, a born-and-bred maniacal Chicago driver.  You know how when you are making a left turn and the light is green and you’re waiting for oncoming traffic to finish going through the intersection?  Down here, don’t even think about pulling into the intersection.  Everyone stays at or behind the turn lane line.  That took me awhile to get used to.  And I had to resist the urge to lay on the horn; you rarely hear that in Middle Tennessee.

            But the biggest difference between Tennessee and Illinois, to me, is the scenery.  Even a drive to the kid’s school looks nothing like that which I am used to.  The school is brand new and it’s built on former farmland.  There’s a two-lane road leading up to the school; to the left is an old silo, and wild turkeys roam the property.  (The school itself looks like an East Coast prep school, which doesn’t exactly match, but it’s impressive all the same.)  When I drive to the Whole Foods (one county and three towns due west), I take a two-lane road that winds past horse farms and cattle and half a dozen small churches scattered along the hills.  (I’m still awed each time I look over and see a cow grazing next to the road.)  My town is being built up like crazy, but we don’t have to drive far to be in the middle of rural grounds.  Or in the middle of Nashville.

            Funny enough, Nashville reminds me a bit of Chicago, with a little Los Angeles mixed in.  It has the Chicago neighborhood feel, as it is broken into clearly delineated areas with their own names and identities:  12 South, East Nashville, The Gulch, Belle Meade.  There’s even a downtown, though it’s s significantly smaller than the one I grew up near.  The Green Hills neighborhood has the West Hollywood, sunny, hilly feel, complete with the fancy mall and trendy restaurants, and Ann Patchett’s bookstore, Parnassus (across the road from the state’s only Trader Joes).  For these reasons, I almost instantly felt at home in Nashville.  But Nashville isn’t Chicago.  My old friends and family are nowhere to be found; I can’t see the landmarks I know so well (though the Batman Building is kinda cool).  Logistics are different too.  There is no “El” system.  I take I-24 instead of I-94, and I don’t know my way around very well at all.  I suppose, with time, I will.  (I try to go into Nashville once a week or every ten days so I can learn.)

            I still feel I am here only temporarily, even though that is not the plan.  There are several reasons for this.  First, I just haven’t been here long enough to have laid down anything even resembling roots.  We’ve begun doing house projects to make it feel like our home, but we still have boxes to unpack and pictures to hang and rooms to paint and even some mail to forward.  Then, too, there’s the fact my husband’s employer likes to relocate its employees, and there’s no reason to believe that won’t happen to him and thus to us.  Plus, in the past, every time I’ve moved out of state, I’ve returned to Illinois, so I’m not used to staying gone for more than a few years.  But mostly, I’ve spent the vast bulk of my life in the Chicagoland area, so any time I leave, I always expect to return.  Chicago has been my home in every sense of the word since I was born, and my roots run deep there.  I don’t plan on permanently returning (though I want to be buried there), but I’ve lived long enough to know I should never, ever say never.

            And so I wander around Tennessee, learning and seeing and doing, all the while carrying the feeling that I can’t believe I live here, that I’ll be leaving again soon.  I assume the feeling will eventually pass and one day I won’t even think about living somewhere else.  Of course, that will probably be the moment when my husband’s employer will transfer us to Minnesota, but that’s the topic for another chapter of “I can’t believe I live here,” one I hope happens far into the future, if it happens at all.