The Humor Column

Yesterday, a few people mentioned that they would like to see the humor column I write. It's in a small, local journal, circulation 8,900. My column has the same name as this blog, and I want it to be a bit like the articles Erma Bombeck wrote in her day. (Except for the fact Erma was incredibly awesome, and I really don't compare.) Call this a Tribute To Erma column. I focus on the things we all know: children, spouses, housework, bills, aging, etc. I try to point out the lighter side of these things. Not laugh out loud humor, mind you, just a little smile-during-the-course-of-your-day humor.

The title of this week's installment is, "You Can Go Home Again." I've shortened the article to fit better into blogger format.

Remember that age-old axiom, "you can't go home again"? Silly. Ridiculous. Absurd. Of course you can. I did. And it taught me something, too.

I was born in Portland, Oregon, during the halcyon days of spring in 196... Well, let's just say I'm an Oregonian and leave it at that. For me, growing up in the Pacific Northwest was a dream. Rain was my favorite season. (Let's face it, when the sun did make an appearance our joints creaked more than the Tin Man in The Wizard Of Oz.)

A few summers ago, our family took a road trip back to my hometown, and I was the human equivalent of that dog we've all seen. You know, the one with the canine grin who blissfully sticks its head out of the car window as the wind whips its face. So great was my joy at seeing the Columbia River Gorge, I felt tears gathering at the corners of my eyes. From unrestrained emotion, not the wind. We stopped at Multnomah Falls, took the kids on a short hike, and then drove into the city.

We had no more crossed the Willamette than an angry motorist flipped us the bird. That put a momentary damper on my nostalgia. The weather was also chillier than I remembered. I'm not kidding, the Portlanders at the zoo wore woolly Peruvian sweaters and thick socks under their Birkenstock sandals.

In August.

Yes, that's the month we, in Utah, call The Hot Time or The Big Heat. (Okay. Maybe I'm the only one in Utah who calls it that. But we all think it, right?)

I showed my old home to my children, and it was lovely, but nearly unrecognizable. The yard I had known as a girl was as different as the house. The bridge and pond were gone, and the Yew climbing tree had been cut down.

The Oregon beach was absolutely gorgeous. However, I am not the daredevil I used to be. After trying to body surf with my older children, I realized I couldn't tolerate the water temperature as I did before. Honestly, this water was not merely freezing. My children ran in and then away from it.

How cold was it, you ask?

Cold enough that you'd prefer to go skinny dipping in the North Sea in January than test it with your toe, cold enough that you wouldn't be surprised to see a polar bear doing the back stroke in the nearest tidal pool, cold enough that even the migrating whales wear wet suits when they pass through those waters. Alright. Maybe I'm exaggerating. Slightly.

Obviously, everything changes. Portland and I both look different after all these years. Truth be told, I've discovered that I prefer warm weather since living in the desert. I will always be a Portland girl. But maybe, I'm also a Wasatch Front, Utah county girl as well.

Revisiting the past is worthwhile. It illuminates the present. It helps us realize how good things were and often, how much better they are now. Home is a relative term, after all. When we're with the people we love, our roots settle, and we're there. I'm home each time my husband and kids walk through the door.

And yet, a bit of my heart will always belong to that beautiful City Of Roses.

Can't go home again? Hah. The next thing you know, they'll be saying you can't change a leopard's spots. . . Silly. Ridiculous. Absurd.

Thanks for taking the time to read over this bit of nonsense. I enjoy writing for a community newspaper. It's nice to hear feedback from my neighbors.

Oh, my muse Daniel Craig is fed up with the noise my son is making. He says he's going to fetch a cup of tea and stretch out with a good book since I'm busy blogging. I'm not complaining. When Dan was bored yesterday, he sat next to me and cleaned his gun. I guess I better get back to work. Happy writing to all!