I came to Houston, Texas in 1975, one week out of high school. I’d grown up in Magnolia, Arkansas – a town of about 11,000 people on a good day when all the cows were home.
It was a marvelous place to grow up. We got wonderful educations, had a firm religious foundation, and were fed and molded by a group of talented Southern women and men. Magnolia was a sturdy launching pad. We had everything we needed to thrive.
When I left for Houston, Daddy cautioned me not to sunburn the roof of my mouth. I didn’t understand him. He said that I’d be standing in the middle of the road, mouth open, head back, staring up at the tallest buildings I’d ever seen. He actually wasn’t far wrong.
I took to Houston like a duck to water. Loved being able to see, do, experience anything one might imagine – all on a 24/7 basis. I shopped for groceries at 2am many times. Walmart was open all night when Catlin had a school project she’d forgotten. And I loved the anonymity of it. You could tell your entire life story to anyone – confident you’d never meet them again! Houston was like one big amusement park, and I loved it.
I spent 42 years here. I traveled all over the country. We often vacationed as a family in cities – Chicago, Los Angeles, Seattle, Montreal, Ottawa, Quebec, and many more.
But as the years went by, I found myself planning more and more vacations in small towns, mountain retreats – places to stop and breathe. Just breathe and look at anything other than concrete. We moved to the suburbs, to a place where I could see open fields. The constant busyness started to be just too much “too much” for me.
Mike never thought I could happily leave this city – the 4th largest city in America – and follow him to two of the smallest towns in the US. But I did, and I never looked back. It was actually an easy adjustment.
Driving into Houston today for the first time in two years, I found myself in a bubble. I negotiated eight lanes of traffic by rote; didn’t even have to think about it. I enjoyed looking at everything, thinking about places I’d like to see with Catlin during my quick trip. Gus was in shock looking out the window – he’d never seen that many cars in his life.
And I realized I was counting the days until I saw my Arkansas mountains again – and wishing I was in Alaska on the C-Dory, listening to the whales blow.
Mike lived his whole life away from a city. In 2016, he headed for Houston to live with me. That lasted about two weeks – he realized very quickly there was no way he could do it. I would have to come home with him.
I wish I could tell him that now, I understand his decision. And I wish I could tell him that I never appreciated how much love it took to offer to leave his outdoor life behind to come and live in my world – and when that didn’t work, how much love it took to offer me the smoothest transition possible between our two very different worlds.
I did tell him – over and over – how grateful I was that he brought me to Alaska and to Arkansas. How blessed I was that he gave me our two beautiful worlds – and that he taught me the new skills I needed to live in each one.
But i never got to tell him the biggest lesson I’ve remembered from our growing-up years. The lesson that Mike knew well, because he’d lived it. The race in life isn’t about possessions. It’s not the car you drive, the clothes you wear or the house you live in that makes you who you are. It’s the community you support, the people who have your back – and those who you support in return. It’s the neighbors you watch out for, the kindnesses given and those received. That’s what truly matters in this world.
And yes, there is some of that in the city. My friends, neighbors and bunco gals were always right there for me, and I loved them for it. But there’s much, much more of that grace in the country.
And that’s where I find I choose to remain…at 62.
At 62 