Some say you can't go home again. Some say you shouldn't. Some choose to go home again, anyway. Some say be careful what you wish for.
Two years ago, Daniel was finishing up his command time at Ft Hood, Texas. I was pregnant with Evangeline, and was looking forward discovering where the Army would send us next. During this time period in an Army Captain's career, most are sent to a non-deployable, relatively easy (read: 50 hr weeks) duty assignment. Often, this means either Ft Irwin, CA, or Ft Polk, LA. These are, by far, the two least popular duty stations in the Army due to their remote placements. But what Uncle Sam didn't know, was that Ft Polk is only a short drive from my hometown, and I couldn't have been more excited with the prospect of moving there. Imagine my surprise when Daniel received a telephone call from his branch manager informing him that he had been chosen for an easy, 9-5 job in Virginia, instead.
I suppose it is worth mentioning that my husband is an absolute saint. Before we were sent to Ft Hood, they asked us to go to Hawaii. At the time, I was pregnant with Karolina, and wanted to be closer to both our Texas and Louisiana families. So, Daniel told them, "Hawaii? Yes, that sounds awesome, thank you, but do you have anything available in Killeen, Texas?" And here we were again. "Virginia? Yes, that sounds amazing, thank you, but do you have anything available in Leesville, Louisiana?" The branch manager laughed, Daniel assured him that he was being serious, and in short order we were on our way. He's a saint, I tell you.
When we first arrived, I enjoyed the novelty of being the "hometown" girl in a crowd made up of Louisiana newbs. Most people had never visited any part of the state, let alone the small region of no-man's-land known as CenLa. You see, LA has long since suffered an identity crisis; the Northen part of the state more closely identifies with Texas, while the Southen part identifies with, well, somewhere between the second and third circles of Hell. (Don't be gettin all uppity, NOLA lovers. Look those circles up-- you'll agree with me.) Anywho, I enjoyed being an ambassador of sorts and answering all the questions I could. That is, until the questions got stupid (approximately 15 minutes after arrival). Humor me while I run down a list of FGAs, or frequently given answers.
"Why yes, I do have all of my teeth, thank you for noticing! As long as you're inspecting things, I also have a couple of butt cheeks and two stiff middle fingers you should check out."
"Mmm-hmm, yes, it is rather hot here. But, you know, I might not have noticed if it weren't for the hourly pictures of your car's temperature gage posted on facebook, so thank you."
"You're right, our little sayings are silly. Ya'll can be singular or plural, a shopping cart is a buggy, some of us make groceries, and 'bless your heart' can mean several different things. Although, in your case, it's probably safe to assume it means eat s#*t."
"No, I don't know why we're all ignorant inbred rednecks, but I know some people who would be more than happy to answer that for you. Take a daytrip to Zwolle, and once you're there, go up to the biggest group of people you can find and ask them."
Despite the seemingly endless barrage of stereotyping, I really did enjoy my time back home. I'll miss the food and family, of course, but I'll especially miss the little things. I'll miss the boys in their Carhartt coveralls and deer season beards. I'll miss the innate certainty that, were I to ever get a flat tire, someone would stop to help me. I'll miss the grocery store buggy wars, when you have to get past someone and you each say excuse me and take turns swearing, "No, I was in your way!" As for me, I wear my drawl like a security blanket; the farther away from home I go, the closer I pull it around me. I feel sorry for those that can't, or won't see the beauty in Louisiana. To them I say, well, bless your heart.
