Image courtesy of Joetography
“What would you say if [insert name of major technology company] hired me to lead their insurance brand?”
My reaction to Ryan’s question startles me.
“I don’t know. Where are they headquartered?’
California, of course. And then I’m lost in reverie, wondering how well I’ll fit into California. I plan to lose weight.
What surprises me is that I am not terrified at the thought of moving again, of packing up the house and making life elsewhere, no matter how desperate my desire for home sometimes feels.
For the bulk of my life, I’ve been a nomad. I was born in Indiana, and we followed my father as he finished graduate work (Missouri, Ohio) and moved systematically from assistant professor (Eastern Tennessee) to associate professor (Western Tennessee). All that packing up and making life elsewhere: our family incurred the debt of uprootedness for a career my father would ultimately abandon – because teaching communications at small liberal arts’ colleges isn’t the easiest way to fund a child’s college education. My father ended up with white-collar executive work that paid that bills (and, by the way, failed to fund happiness). We settled in Ohio. My mother is still there. But my father is not. I was nearly nineteen when he died, twenty-three when my brother followed him.
There’s no place like home, it is said.
But this is the refrain aching in me: there’s no place that’s home.