the country mouse and the city mouse

I recently got back from a visit to my hometown.  It's funny, the "home" in "hometown" because although it has not been home for more than half the years I've been alive, it is still the place I know most intimately.  I can navigate the "back roads" like nobody's business, and still know where to get the best pizza, bagels, sushi and Greek food.  Amityville, the south shore of Long Island, where despite the busy crazy suburbian traffic and my leaving it behind, still feels like somewhere I belong.


It couldn't be more different than where I live now, where I have lived for the past six years, the longest I have ever lived in one place since leaving Amityville as a college grad.  Here at home in Massachusetts, we live on six acres of land.  Our "yard" is the size of a football field with a gentle slope with some fruit trees and a roto-tilled garden ready for some planting (soon).  Beyond that there are woods, rocky ledges, and more woods behind the yard and the barn.  Trails weave in and out of Oaks, Maples, Birch, Pine, Mountain Laurel, dirt, rocks, acorns, moss, deer poop, chipmunks, squirrels, spiders and other insects and etc. on a floor of dead leaves.  A couple years ago I even turned around and hurried away to avoid a bear.  Cassidy and I kick through leaves, feel the textures of different kinds of bark, close our eyes and point at the direction the bird calls come from.  We smell the flowers, the rocks, the dirt.  She collects sticks and acorns.  We come inside with dirty knees and hands. 

In the yard, we go up the slope and Cassidy turns around to run back down.  Over and over and over.  We blow kisses to the baby peach tree.  We swing on the hammock.  We throw toys to Annie (our Golden Retriever) who runs around wild and pat Zuki (our beloved feline) who never strays far when we are outside.  I push her around in her little tykes car.  Daddy takes her for rides on the tractor.  She plays in her sandbox Daddy built for her, or swings on the swing he hung between two trees in the woods.  We have so much room here, so much freedom to explore.

In New York, we visited three age appropriate parks in one day, two in walking distance, where Cassidy squealed and screamed exploring the bright colored structures.  She flirted with other children.  We went to Captree State Park and watched the boats go in and out while eating clam chowder.  We went to Robert Moses and dug in the sand, watched the waves crash, collected shells and inhaled the sea air.  We held hands on sidewalks and docks, stopping to throw the ducks bits of bread.


When we needed milk, we drove to Stop and Shop and were back at our family's home in about ten minutes.  When we went out for breakfast, I met a woman with a daughter one week younger than Cassidy and told her I would meet her for play dates if I lived closer, and I totally would have.


In Massachusetts, I've yet to find the nearest age appropriate playground.  We go to the local elementary school playgrounds, but Cassidy is not quite ready for them.  The closest grocery store is 25 minutes away, which makes going shopping not just a chore, but an event.  We drive to State Parks close by and walk trails around ponds and lakes.  If we go anywhere, we drive.  We have to.  Though we often just stay home and spend time getting lost in our own yard.


In New York, the mostly small fenced in yards abutting one after the other feels claustrophobic.  The traffic on Merrick Road on a Saturday is astounding, as are the poor manners of many drivers on the Island.  The amount of things to do, places to go, people to see is almost overwhelming.


I love the freedom and expanse of raising our daughter here.  I miss the easy proximity of friends.  I love the thrill Cassidy gets carted around at the grocery store on our weekly trips.  I miss the easy access of whatever I forgot to buy.  I love the woods.  I miss the ocean.  I love the quiet, privacy and solitude of the country. I miss the hundreds of things to do at the drop of a hat.  I love that our yard hosts visits by deer, wild turkey, critters and sometimes even bears.  I miss the feeling of neighbors and community. 

Aside from the birds at the feeder, I just watched Debbie, our mail lady, drive by in her jeep and stuff the mail in the box from my dining room window, where I sit and write.  The postmaster in our town, Jan, calls me at home when a package arrives in case I want to pick it up earlier than the next day scheduled delivery.  When Cassidy was born the ladies at the Post Office sent me a card.  When my father died (and I don't even know how they knew), the ladies at the Post Office sent me a card.  And yes, I get a Christmas card, too.  From the Post Office.


The grass is always greener on the other side.  I ache that Cassidy won't grow up with the ocean in her blood as I did, with sand between her toes on boats and docks.  She won't learn to swim in saltwater or go to the city see shows or museums as much as I did.   I love that Cassidy will grow up with a love and appreciation of nature and farms and a slowed down style of living.  We heat with wood and get our water from a natural spring up the road.   I'll say it again: The grass is always greener on the other side.

It's kind of weird that Cassidy and I won't share that same sense of home with the same place.  But it's kind of cool, too.  It's also cool that I'll keep bringing her back to visit with family and the home where I came from.  And who knows, maybe she'll grow up to live on a beach and claim a new home, like her momma did.