Sunday, November 25, 2007

Home

In truth, I really should have no complaints.

After six years of dominating radio in Wilmington and being incredibly conservative in my spending habits, I was able to sell my home for twice what I paid for it, pay off both of my cars, wipe out all of my debt and escape to Mexico for nine months to write an epic novel that will likely prove to be a publishing phenomenon once it hits the shelves (we shant trifle with the when.)

After a year of writing, reconnecting with my family and traveling all over Mexico and the the United States, racking up 30,000 miles on the road, I was able to finally relocate to the Outer Banks which has been an aspiration for nearly 14 years. The radio group that hired me is very expressive of their gratefulness to have me, my girls are all quite happy to be sharing a stage in community theatre and our house which is just four blocks from the beach provides me a nightly symphony of crashing waves ans swirling winds to lull this latter day pirate off to a restful sleep. I should be quite content.

So why am I not?

I think because one of the high water marks in my life occurred last Thanksgiving in Patzcuaro. Not only did I have my wife and daughters with me but my dear friend Julie had flown down to Mexico to share our adventure for a week. We were all refugees from the mudane tradition of the pointless American ritual of Thanksgiving which clashes with my Native American sensibilities. And yet, here among American expatriates, Katrina emigres, Canadian dual citizens and Mexican nationals we found such joy in an impromptu celebration of a uniquely American tradition that didn't contain a single pilgrim's hat or prayer as we supped on chickens, frijoles, tortillas and beans of countless variety to the strums of banda and xydeco from our impromptu combo.

So, as you can imagine, memories of that most non-traditional Thanksgiving have dominated my thoughts. But even more were the hundreds of photos we were able to finally download from our camera that documented our trip back to the states. It carried us north through Mexico's central mountains, across the Sonoran desert to the southern mountains of Texas and north through New Mexico and Colorado. Those photos were a reminder of what we were slowly leaving behind as we continued north through Wyoming and slowly arcing east into the Black Hills of South Dakota. This is sacred land as we took in both the tributes to American bravado as exemplified in Mount Rushmore and the symbol of Native American pride as represented in the resurgence of Tatanka... the American Buffalo. I spiritually reconnected with my nation among those shaggy tranquil beasts who barely acknowledged our mechanical intrusions as engine and camera motor swirled and whirled about them, capturing these magnificent moments of breathless anachronism from the convenience of my Land Rover cabin. These moments with the buffalo and elk were the last of the new and unfamiliar for, the next day we would begin our journey southeast to roads I have previously traveled, through hills that were well paved and well worn with the pedestrian pedantics of the casual traveler and soon, very soon,we would be slipping back into the mainstream, the complacent ho-hum nature of commonplace America.

It is a lovely gray day here on the Outer Banks. Traffic slips down the bypass as those who are already caught up in the "spirit of Christmas," i.e. the post Thanksgiving shopping frenzy, make their way through the gentle rain to take advantage of that consumer orgy somehow representative of the birth of an infant some two thousand years ago, or so the story goes. The girls are off at the Theatre of Dare doing their final run throughs of Peter Pan before performances kick off next weekend. Tomorrow, I'll preach the merits of an 8% increase over last year's Black Friday weekend numbers with the goal of coaxing out a few more retailers to lure plastic bearing barons into their stores to spend money they don't have to buy things not necessarily wanted or needed for people they don't particularly care for. I'll play my part in the vapid, empty consumerism we call Christmas, focused on the next four weeks towards those few days bequeathed to the working man because Jesus grants a day off.

And every now and again, as Fabiola speeds me down Croatan Highway, my mind's eye will take in the vistas I've absorbed through her windshield down other roads. The sunrises and sunsets I've been treated to will briefly manifest, the hum of my wheels coursing methodically over asphalt will serenade me as I whisper gratefully the opportunity I have had to travel so many wondrous roads, counting each day until once again we seek out those less familiar byways that take my breath away.

For though I treasure each day I spend here on the Outer Banks, in truth, my home will always be over the next magnificent horizon.

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