The problem with zipping up to my hometown some weekends is not the going-home-traffic turning 75 miles into 750, not that I rarely get any writing done because of the endless activities, not the June gloom (kindly vanishing for the Solstice Parade), not that we return home laden in thoughtful gifts (homegrown zucchinis, party plates, beach tar on our feet)—the problem is that I don’t want to leave.
Why would I want to leave a town that has this in it? Or a homemade Godzilla chasing housewives wearing leopard print poodle skirts and yellow dishwashing gloves? Or men in grass skirts wearing giant papier mache hammers on their heads? Why would I want my husband and child to leave such mental/visual treasures for a valley so hot you can cook a steak on your lawn chair?
Why would I want us to leave this? This beauty? This impressive chunk of creativity? Hm?
I want to move North. I’m a better writer North. My son blossoms around family and the beach. My husband belongs in my town as much as I do. Today, for the entire 75 miles back to our sweltering valley, inching along the 101, we talked about how we might make our move happen. We are still reeling from ideas. Or floundering.
O giant rolling watermelon: Help us. We want to come home.