There’s something lovely about driving home to Fremont. I used to take the Turnpike, but lately I’ve been taking 303. The yellow and green fields, the deer on the edge of the woods and the low-lying areas, and the smell of cow manure permeating the air–it’s a place I know.
303 is a smoother transition into Fremont. The way the land just gets flatter and flatter, until I am flying down Route 20 through Monroeville, Bellevue, and Clyde. Past the Whirlpool plant where I spent six summers and numerous breaks building the back panels of washing machines. Where I made friends that I still talk to, that still keep an eye on me. On Woodland Avenue, I veer off onto country roads, flying at 70 miles an hour, hugging the curves of the roads that I know like the curve of my waist into my hip.
Past the houses, past the people, past the cars I know. And feeling the key in the lock and the screen pressed against my shoulder as I shift my bag from one arm to another. My mother pulls me into her arms, my father yells, “Hoot!” from somewhere in the house, and my brother waves lazily from the couch.
I’m going home tomorrow. I cannot wait to run my 6-mile country block. I cannot wait to go to the Depot or the Croghan Street Yacht Club and throw back a couple beers. I cannot wait to lie by the pool. I cannot wait to do my laundry. I cannot wait to see my cousins at Heather’s baby shower. I hope, too, that some of you will want to go to the Sacred Heart Festival, and that we’ll have a good ole time. Get a hold of me if you’d like to go! The Menus and the CoCoBeanOs are playing!
Mike will be in PA this weekend, so I’ll be flying solo. Give a girl a friend? Thanks!
Have an awesome day, ya’ll!