When my husband and I finally returned to central Florida after twenty years of moving about the country, I have to admit, I envisioned the whole town turning out to greet us.
I quickly squelched such utterly foolish ideas. I'd settle for a banner strung across the front door, I told myself.
I could practically taste my mom's fried chicken and the made-from-scratch banana pudding she'd serve for dessert. I imagined Dad taking the tarp off the old Chevy I'd left in the barn. By the time I got home, he'd have it road-worthy again.
But once again, I'd let my imagination get away from me.
In the first place, there was no barn. No Chevy, either. And since Mom had spent five of the last twenty years moving from place-to-place with my family, if I wanted my favorite meal, I'd have to fix it myself. Or, more likely, pick it up at the grocery store.
Once reality sunk in, I realized that coming home is rarely what we imagine. In my mind, everything I'd left behind had stayed the same while I was "out there" exploring the great big world (or moving from one mundane job to another). But my parents, sister, cousins and friends hadn't exactly been sitting around waiting for me. They'd moved on with their lives, too. I didn't fit as neatly back into the scheme of things as I thought I would. I had some adjusting to do.
In the Rancher's Homecoming series, the next three books I'm writing for Harlequin American, Seth and Doris's five sons come back home to the Circle P, the setting for Rancher's Son.
But, they make many of the same discoveries I made when I finally moved back "home."
Things are different on the ranch they left behind. There's a new cook in the kitchen and, not only does she make a mean fried chicken, she looks mighty fine while she's doing it. The neighbor's daughter, the one all the boys loved to tease so much, has exchanged her tomboy looks for quiet sophistication. The nearby town has grown, and the owner of the new music store on the corner has every cowboy within fifty miles strumming a guitar.
Yes, things have changed. And I'm having a lot of fun seeing how these rugged ranchers react to the changes that have taken place on the Circle P in the years they've been away. I hope you will, too, when the Rancher's Homecoming series reaches store shelves next year.
5 comments:
Visiting the town I grew up in was always weird. At first it felt like I was visiting home, but as the years wore on, that feeling vanished. This past summer, I visited to clean out my mother's storage unit (she died the previous year) and I realized I would probably never see that town again. It would never be home again.
I'm a firm believer of "you can't go home again." The monster house I grew up in as a child somehow shrunk about four thousand square feet when I drove my children past it to show them where I went to school. All the shops on main street were closed. The playground of my youth was an overgrown field with the rusting posts of a used to be swing set. And my city dwelling daughter said "Mom, whatever did you do here?" I couldn't explain that this wasn't where I grew up... that place was gone and this was a different place now.
Diane, My sympathies on the loss of your mom. I hope your new "home town" is a place where you're making wonderful new memories.
Leigh
So true. So true, Linda. Things change. Stores close. Playgrounds fall into ruin. The minor league stadium with the wooden bleachers I once loved running up and down, all gone. Fortunately, where I live, the Washington Nationals now play in a brand new stadium and the Manatees provide minor league entertainment there all summer. I'm very lucky that, though many of my old haunts are gone, our town offers new things to do, places to go.
Leigh
When I go back to my hometown, it makes me sad when my favorite places have closed. I have been gone 25 years and there has been so many changes.
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