No matter where I go, or what I do, Fremont is home. I swore to myself that I’d get out of that town, but it’s obvious to anyone who knows me that Fremont is in my blood.
Because Mike had a golf tournament this weekend, we decided it would probably be a waste for me to go to Pennsylvania, and that he’d probably be too sunburnt/hungover/tired to really hang out much this weekend. So he golfed, and I took that long drive down route 303 toward my parents’ house.
I knew the moment I pulled off of the highway onto Smith Road that it was going to be one of those weekends that I felt homesick, even in my own home. I spent Friday night watching the Cleveland Indians in my living room with my family, just like I used to. And with a little wine in my system, I fell asleep on the couch with the TV glowing, rejoicing in everything that is cable television.
On Saturday morning, I went for a run on my country block–the block that used to put me in my place, and open up my eyes (and this time tore up my feet due to lack of summer feet – see picture to the left). And I stopped and talked to a little old couple who always wave at me from their porch. I took time to look out over the Sandusky River at all the people fishing off of the State Street Bridge. I knew people who were driving past me in cars. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed that. I went for the same run on Sunday, stopping to talk to my old softball coach and wandering around the small streets behind the Ballville EZ Shop.
It’s insane how memories can exist in a place. Remembering a ride down a certain road in a dune buggy, looking at the stars near Tindall Bridge with my first real boyfriend, almost crashing my car into the Sandusky River when my brakes locked up. Watching my cousin, Clay get ready for prom got me completely lost in memories of my own prom.
I always told myself that I would never live in Fremont again, that there was no opportunity for me there. But I found myself wishing that someday there would be. But I guess that’s the bittersweet part about moving away from home. People laughed at my love for my hometown in college. So I can’t say that I didn’t appreciate it until I was gone. I did appreciate it, but I shamed myself out of it. And I’m lucky that I can still go back and see everything that is familiar to me and comforted me as a child. Fremont isn’t so bad. It may not hold any opportunity for me right now, but it’s still where I came from.
What it comes down to is that tearing up your feet on your home turf, and seeing the familiar faces reminds you that you’re stronger than you were, and that where you came from did play a part who you are today.