BRIGADOON-ish

I look up toward the onion domes of All Souls up on the hill, but they are missing. I peek down the street at the impressive wall of fog. It reveals, at most, 20 feet in front of us as the pup and I begin our walk. The town materializes slowly as we go. The dog doesn't seem to notice. I find it a little disconcerting.

This place is no Brigadoon, appearing out of the fog once every 100 years. It is stuck in the past, but more recent. It stopped marching forward when the mills started closing in the Mon Valley in the early 1980s.

The truth is that I haven't really bonded with this place. It's not the town's fault. I am sure it's doing its best. It is a way station, the place where I live while I am planning for the next part of my life.

We pass the senior citizen's apartment building, conveniently located across the street from one of four funeral homes in the town. Each window of the funeral home holds a single electric candle, They beckon like the old Motel 6 ads. We'll leave a light on for you!

Eloise picks up the scent of her arch-nemesis, Big White Cat. She pokes her head onto the porch of his house and he dives onto the railing and over the fence. She sniffs the vacant air for a moment before moving on to something else.

On the right is the tree house. I call it that because there is an artificial Christmas tree on the porch. It's been there since the week before Thanksgiving. I keep waiting for it to disappear into storage until next year, but instead it keeps evolving.

The original Christmas ornaments gave way some time around the third week of January to a flurry of black and gold football-themed ornaments honoring the Steelers Super Bowl bid. This morning it has erupted into a vision of romance with miniature paper cupids and a shiny heart garland. I am hoping shamrocks will be next. There is a certain consistency to it that I find comforting.

The columns in front of the public library appear through the mist. Originally the town's post office, this grand structure was erected by people who thought very highly of this place and its prospects for the future.

Further down, an elaborately carved stone porch curves around the corner. An aluminum siding covered addition sits on top at if it were dropped there by a big wind.

We continue down the street past several empty shop fronts. Some have Steeler posters and terrible towels in the windows. We may be down, but we still have the greatest football team on the planet, they announce.

We pass the men's coffee shop and the owner waves. I see him every morning, but we have never spoken. He waves. I wave. That's the whole transaction.

We round the corner past the art shop and head down Fifth Street street. As we pass under the eagle on the First National Bank building, bits of the fog break apart and turn to snow flakes and land on our faces.

The aroma of wedding soup from the old Italian restaurant swirls around us as we pass. Lovely. Nothing like wedding soup. I am famished.

We head for home and breakfast.

REPATRIATION

A few months ago, I was sitting in the Monongahela Aquatorium with my family. It was my first real American 4th of July after living out of the country for six years. The threatening rain had passed us by and the skies cleared.

We had funnel cakes and frosty cold Coca Cola as we waited for the fireworks to start. The bleechers filled up.

The DJ called a limbo contest to entertain the waiting crowd. Kids were foisted by their parents onto the stage to compete. Others played in the mud by the river.

When the fireworks started, my young niece climbed onto my lap to get a better view. The DJ played a mixed collection of patriotic music. John Phillip Souza, et al. Not my style really, but the fireworks were spectacular.

Then the music changed to Ray Charles singing "America, the Beautiful" as the finale began. As I sat watching the fireworks and the perfectly perfect small town America crowd, I tried my best to conceal my tears.

"Why are you crying, Auntie?" asked my niece.

"Because this is so beautiful and I am so happy to be here." I answered.

***

All I can say is this, today, even when watched on TV from my living room instead of from the Mall as originally planned--this is a million times better. I am crying my lips off and truly grateful to be watching from this side of the ocean. It's good to be home!

PRIDE OF PLACE

Since returning to America a little over a year ago, I have been spending quite a bit of time thinking about home.

Yesterday, the anniversary of my mother's death, had a spark of realization, something I had never seen before.

With her final heartbeat, my sense of home was changed forever. For the first 19 years of my life, I never questioned what or where home was. Once she was gone, home was no longer home. The house in the Mon Valley was still there, but the home was gone.

I left the Mon Valley as if someone was chasing me and headed out into the world.

The place where I receive my mail has changed with my changing fortunes over the years, from college dorms to city row houses to a brief stint in a dark squat in a very, very scary neighborhood to a posh fifth floor apartment in Washington, DC to a little cottage by the sea in the west of Ireland. All of these places felt like home for a while.

I lived with roommates, housemates, a boyfriend. Mostly, I have lived on my own. Presently, I live on my own in an orange shag-carpeted apartment back in the Mon Valley with my border collie, Eloise.

I know that this isn't the last stop on my journey. Honestly, I have been thinking lately that if Eloise and I could arrange to spend six months or so living in a second floor flat with an iron balcony overlooking a lesser canal in the Cannareggio in Venice, I would be the happiest person in the world.

But still it might not feel like home.

When I left the Mon Valley many years ago, the Steelers were winning. This place is joyous when they are winning and it permeates everything.

Yesterday, as I drove to work, the Steelers Polka played on the radio. I recalled an image of my mother--hair in curlers, sitting at the kitchen table, cigarette in one hand, cup of coffee in the other bopping along to the song on KDKA radio. My feet moved in time with the music. I know the words. I didn't know I knew the words. I smiled in spite of myself.

I don't know where home is yet, but somewhere in the deep recesses of my soul I have the urge to polka.