My father moved us across the country to escape family. We had an atlas on our laps and calculated 2,229 miles. It felt more like 5,000 miles from our Rambler station wagon window. He moved us into a town where no one knew us, no one knew any of our relatives, and we were practically ghosts. We had a brand new house, brand new rooms, and brand new appliances. Everything was new except for us. He later said, "I couldn't stand everyone staring at us from across the street, or ringing our doorbell to bring us bad casseroles."
At my Jean's service last week as I stood back under that old magnolia I realized I was surrounded by Stanfords. In fact, I was stepping on a few. I think it was at least four hundred years of them. I oddly felt a sense of belonging. I smiled to myself, and thought how fruitless my father's trek had been.
I love the raw truth here. Roots run strong in families, despite the desire to sometimes escape them. We seem to find our way home, don't we? This is beautiful and haunting all at once.
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