Ruston

We grew up in Texarkana but we were from Ruston. We were transplants, or that is what our mother said. "God's Country" was Louisiana, and we could smell it each time we drove home to the peaches and hush puppies and tire swings of our grandparents' backyards. They were connected, the backyards, by a trail. It was magical, miles long, treacherous and deep. You had to walk with a brother or sister or cousin--you would never brave it alone. It was mysterious and familiar, somehow, and we loved it. It led from the Brown back porch to the O'Banion back garden, and we felt as if we broke into different bubbles each time we entered into the green light out of the woods. 


Of course, it was only a 5 minute walk, brightly lit, usually dewy and lined with acorns, the occasional snake and a forgotten metal trash can we liked to imagine was the vacation home of Oscar. It was, truly, made of dogwood trees. The forest was thick with them, so every spring, the trail would burst into light, this beautiful bright, pure white and it made the whole world happy. 


My life has followed that trail, and it led me to this eastern netherworld called New Jersey. I didn't know dogwoods lived here, but, of course, they were here to greet us, when we moved late spring. It was like they were saying "hello," and I actually felt comforted, like I was seeing an old friend. Or like my mom was hugging us, and I could smell her Ponds cream and knew this part of the trail would be safe. 


This blog, this expression out into the void, is a thank you. A love song. A prayer.