FINDING HOME, part II

… “Holy shit!” I yelled at no one. 

Lost in thought, I suddenly focused ahead and realized there was a car coming straight towards me. I was driving on the right side of the road … in England. It's early Monday morning, and traffic is light, which is lucky, because to my best guess, I’d gotten out of the neighborhood and about a half mile down the road before I realized.

“Left side. Left side.” I repeat like a mantra. I’m back in the UK.

I need to plug in my TomTom. That little device is nothing if not good at giving me a heads up about which side of the road to traverse. In the last year, it’s guided me through England, France, Belgium, the Netherlands, Germany, and most recently the US.

After our Space A flight to Dayton, it led me to Columbus, then on to Huron, south again to Tennessee, then to Florida and back to Dayton. Upon landing and driving down I-70 the visual disparity between the lushness of England and the burned out flatness of Ohio was distinct. Not attractive scenery, the interstate between Dayton and Columbus. I was disappointed. I wanted my perceived home to feel more welcoming.

It wasn't until we reached the mountains of Kentucky and Tennessee days later that I enjoyed the bucolic setting and visual eye candy I normally associate with that part of the country. It was a welcome change.

We packed a lot in those days — celebrated the 4th of July with family and friends; took in Lake Erie; watched my son drive my beloved dad's boat (a right of passage in my world); rode a few rockin' coasters. But now it's time to head to the emerald coast. I channel the sounds of Zach Brown and point it south.

Florida offers respite and balance. Stark was the contrast between the stifling Ohio drought and the daily damp and downpour of England. As we crossed the border into Kentucky, my car temp read 107 Fahrenheit. I wondered if my tires would melt, or blow, like my bike tires used to in the heat.

But we made it. We soaked in sun, sand, sea, and time with Grandma MJ; along with as much fresh catch as possible. It was grand. The strip of land along the coast known as 30-A is heaven on earth to us.

I’ve been back on British soil for about a week, but literally haven’t left the house. A new house. Another house. Our house hopefully for more than a year this time. Now we're in a neighborhood with lots of folks and other children for the kids to play, away from my beloved woods and backyard cob horses, but I'll adjust —in time.

I keep saying to no one in particular and anyone who will listen, "moving is like giving birth, you need more than one year to recover before contemplating another." But we did it. I've been wrapped up in unwrapping since landing about a week ago. I thwarted the usual jet lag, which accompanies travels in this direction, and jumped right into things. I never rest until nary a box is in the house.

Now I allow for tired, which explains why I'm driving on the right (wrong) side of the road. Oops. I adjust my wheel, and begin travelling forward; finding my home for another year in England.