On the three-minute drive to my morning walk, there’s a marsh dotted with matchstick tree snags, like skeletal fingers reaching out of the water. Steam rises from the bowl-like surface at dusk, and while my eyes should be on the road, I’m constantly scanning for a bald eagle. Ever since I saw a photo of one there, it’s like I’m playing “Where’s Waldo?” but with eagles.
I find myself seeking out reminders of home. I miss the way eagles soar, the sight of their wings cutting through the air. I’ve been looking at pictures of Mount Rainier, making sure I say “bag” with the proper Washington “ay,” and proudly wearing my Washington sweatshirt wherever I go.
My little “fishing line” of a sweatshirt worked on Wednesday at Kroger. A man, whose cart was parked next to mine while we browsed the beans and tomato sauce, struck up a conversation. We talked for a good twenty minutes—Dave, Evelyn, him, and me—about how he used to live in Seattle, how much he loved the culture there, and how he struggles with living in the less progressive South. Born and raised in Munich, Germany, atheist, and very pro-Kamala, his conversation felt like sherbet in a world of vanilla.
Later, we were sitting on the back porch, Dave and my song playing in the background, when Archie’s neck fur shot up like he’d been electrocuted. His ears turned into satellite dishes, and then it came—the sound of a cop chase. At least, that’s what my brain told me at first. But soon enough, I recognized the call: coyotes. A whole pack of them.
Our first fire on the back porch was roaring, the coals hot and red, welcoming freshly cut logs that hissed out their moisture. It was cozy, and the fire crackling almost drowned out the wildness around us.
All in all, on this 20th day of October, we’ve been residents of Georgia for eight weeks. I’ve seen the Pray for Trump signs, the T-shirts with Jesus nailed on the cross, and heard the casual racial slurs. I’m still not comfortable. But I’m acclimated—and that’s more than I expected by now.
It’s fun finding pieces of myself in this new place. It’s a slow process, but I’m seeing how both the familiar and the unfamiliar shape me. And maybe that’s the beauty in all of this—adapting without losing the core of who you are.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 