Harvesting Home

There are some things that will always remind me of home, of childhood, of safety, of joy, of love:

my mother’s perfume (shalimar)

those little cans you open and then light in lieu of a gas stove

water stained ceilings

sun streaming through windows, lighting up the dust in the air, making the room sparkle

meatloaf

root beer floats

These are things ingrained in my memories. I’ve revisited them countless times in my waking and sleeping dreams.

But sometimes, I hit upon the unexpected.  Like today.

I took Avi to a Pumpkin festival.  It was hot in the sun and cold in the shade.  Crunchy leaves blanketed the curbs.  Little kids ran around in orange shirts.  Bad local bands filled the air with crooning.  A craft room filled with 25% homespun art and 75% homespun crap.  The smell of sausage and onions.

I may have spent my entire childhood at harvest festivals.  Picking my way slowly through the craft exhibits.  Marveling at golf cart sized pumpkins.  The smell of cow shit and hay.  Fuzzy bunnies.  Wishing I’d remembered to submit that photo I thought was so good.  Fire men hoisting small children into their trucks.  Rock music covered lovingly by local middle aged men, laughing adoringly at their relatives as they sing. Bizarre local competitions like skillet tossing, potato sack races, and pumpkin catapulting.

Harvest festivals feel like home.

This is when my heart soars to be in New England.

This is what I would miss were I ever to move away again.