That Old Familiar Fold

Sitting on the back porch of my sister’s house in Augusta on Friday evening I paused, stood, paused again, then leapt headfirst into a pond of Evan Williams (with a splash). Not the best swimmer, but indeed a studied drinker, I dogpaddled to the rim, hoisted myself clear, and shook like a Labrador. I then toweled off with a fine La Flor Dominicana Ligera, the thick smoke settling above me like a headdress. Finally I began to relax.

R. drank wine. Bo drank Crown. LL. drank beer and finally took a single brief dip in the Evan Williams pond. Emerson ran through the backyard with beautiful abandon. A happy child “playing swords” and drawing in the dirt. He is at his most when outside. The Boy soaks up the sun and moon and emits the collective energy in bursts previously unseen in man or child.

We shared dirty jokes and caught up on local politics. The racial divisions that created Augusta have apparently run even deeper in the eight years since I left—this is incomprehensible to me. We talked music and baseball. R. and Em played “jail” in the bed of Bo’s F-150. I took several more dips and adjusted my headdress.

I had forgotten the comfort that can come from being around people.

Augusta is a strange animal for me. It will always be home. And one of the best things I ever did was to leave it. I never cared for it while I lived there and being gone allows me the honor of appreciating it to a certain degree. It’s nice to be homesick now and again. And it’s nice to be welcomed into the old familiar fold of conversation, family, and friendship. Those are things that should never be taken for granted. Over the years, I have toyed with the idea of returning to Augusta. It may happen one day—I would like the Boy to be closer to family. But my gut tells me it isn’t likely. Part of me, I think, needs the ego boost of visiting. To be so well-received with the boy in tow is almost disarming. We are treated like royalty and it feels good. The dinner table is always plentiful. The drinks flow freely. And the love we show and are shown is sincere. It’s everything home should be. Not everyone is fortunate enough to have that.

As talk and drinks continued, Friday turned into early Saturday. Finally, goodbyes and goodnights were bid. Folks went where the early morning required. I carried a sleeping Emerson to his bed and lay down next to him. I watched him for awhile and then also drifted, looking forward to the hangover of Home that surely would greet me in a few hours.