I was listening to a song in the car the other day and thought how interesting it is that I grew up listening to Ravi Shankar by way of the Beatles and today I’m enjoying the music of his daughter, Nora Jones.
Somehow that brought me to thoughts of outcomes that I never would have anticipated.
Because I moved enough during my formative years that no one place has the feeling of a hometown for me, I’m intrigued by what I think of as the coincidence of place. Most of the towns I’ve left behind, I know I’ll never return to, so I find it fascinating when fate pulls me back again.
I was born in
, when my father was in graduate
school. We moved on from there to Princeton,
when I was a year old, but we moved again before my next birthday when my
father left his teaching position for one with the government. I grew up in
northern Amherst, Massachusetts Virginia, and New
England was a distant and foreign place. However, I then was
accepted to a college that was a mere a bus stop away from Princeton.
(The social life I enjoyed there is a story for another day.) And having met a Massachusetts
boy in my college chock-full of New Jerseyites, I now live a half an hour away
from that big white farmhouse in Amherst.
The summer before we were married, I traveled up from
over the Fourth of July weekend to visit my intended. The route from the
airport to his hometown took us down a major city thoroughfare where, being a
child of the ubiquitously brick Arlington
suburbs, I was fascinated by the huge old Victorians that lined the street.
Four Army bases, two children, and three years later, we were in our first
house, where we lived for the next twenty-three years. It was on a side street
off of that very thoroughfare.
I can’t help but wonder what action or event will, in a few years, bring me full-circle back again to a place or a person.