“A man’s homeland is wherever he prospers.” – Aristophanes

January in North Carolina Photo (c) r.smith 2010

I was recently recruited by my father to accompany his parents on a trip to Cherryville (pronounced CHUR-uh-vul, just the way it’s spelled), North Carolina to attend a funeral for a distant relative I’d not seen since I was 12 years old. My grandparents aren’t bad to hang out with, just quirky in the way that only grandparents can accomplish, and I figured if nothing else I’d have time to get some reading done. I was more along for assistance than anything else– chauffer, bellboyhop, and as it turned out, navigator.

It was cold but not terribly so, although the chill in the air definitely became more noticeable the farther north we traveled. I hadn’t really packed for anything cooler than what North Florida was experiencing at the time. (It had snowed/sleeted the week prior in several parts of the state.) I figured that I would be spending most of my time inside, whether it be a funeral home, a church, or the home of some other relatives I hadn’t seen in over a decade. I was right for the most part. There was a brief graveside ceremony held after the church service but being that it was still daylight the cold wasn’t too bad.

Afterwards we (and by we I mean myself about about 30 other distant aunts, uncles, and cousins) repaired to the home of the widower. Where, surprisingly, a goodly portion of my Southern Baptist raised family proceeded to break out the Gentleman Jack and send off the dearly deceased in a fashion after my own heart– they got drunk. Unfortunately I was unable to acquire any pictures of this. Being that my “New Year’s Resolution” was to tone my partying and drinking down a bit.. ok, a LOT.. I did not partake. It wasn’t for want of offers though, and the popular reasoning seemed to be “We can’t let Uncle Mark drink alone! Here, have some whiskey.” Straight and neat, might I add– ice is for tea, and cola is for ice cream floats.

The next day is where the real.. well, I wouldn’t call it fun. Interesting, is a better word. The next day is where the real interesting part began. Admittedly I do not know much about my father’s side of the family. Most of them live out of state and thus 10-year gaps in between visits is not an uncommon thing. Usually we only get together for weddings and funerals. I’m closer to my mother’s side, who have largely remained in Florida and very close to home.

The Family Farm. Photo (c) r.smith 2010

I was carted around to several sites of “historical significance” to my family, including the home in which my great-grandmother was born. There have been a few sources of contention between her and I, both when I was a child and now. And now that I’m all grown up and covered with tattoos our relationship certainly isn’t any better. All the same, it was interesting to stumble over the same rough ground that she did when she was a child.

Things like that always seem to hold a certain sense of surrealism for me. There are a lot of places that hold history for the billions that populate our planet and yet this one particular set of coordinates holds specific meaning for me. And yet, for the person who now inhabits the land (and who was kind enough to let us wander around his property for a few minutes), this giant spread of dirt and grass has a completely different significance. It almost makes my head hurt, thinking about it.

A house is not a home.. Photo (c) r.smith 2010

Apparently my ancestors (it feels so strange using that term to refer to people who are still alive) inhabited this little corner of earth for quite some time, because I was also entertained by stories of both my grandmother and my father experiencing portions of childhood at this locale. I heard about the first time my grandfather met his new in-laws. I laughed at the mental image of my father as a child, rolling around on a barn floor with a swarm of domesticated felines that also called that building home. It’s hard to imagine that he– my father, that is– was ever a child. Nevermind imagining my grandmother or my great-grandmother as frolicking schoolgirls. None of them are ancient by any means and yet my world is a foreign place to them. And vice versa. They do not text message or e-mail, and I cannot imagine a world in which these luxuries do not exist.

We got lost one evening and I whipped out my iPhone, bringing up the Maps app. I successfully navigated us back to our hotel and my grandfather protested the entire way, absolutely positive at every turn that we were still lost. He doesn’t understand technology like that, and therefore doesn’t trust it.. I was half expecting him to cry “Witchcraft!” and throw me out of the car. This is not to say that my grandfather is a simple man, he holds three Master’s degrees and is probably the smartest person I have ever known/will ever know. It is to say that he comes from an era when satellites were something that Russia shot into space to spy on America with, not a tool used to automatically pinpoint your phone’s location and lead you back to your warm bed. Or luggage, in this case.

The Family Farm, pt.2 Photo (c) r.smith 2010

To say the very least, the trip was an interesting experience. I managed to avoid the snarky comments from my great-grandmother. I enjoyed spending time with relative strangers (stranger relatives?) who ooh’d and aah’d when I told them that I have a college degree. (I’m not a snob, but it’s always nice when people are impressed with you. :] ) I learned a little about my heritage. I stopped short of bringing it full circle by also rolling around on the barn floor– and besides, those cats are long gone– but I had a pleasant time all the same. I also managed to learn a little about myself in the process.

Home, sweet home. Photo (c) r.smith 2010

I recently moved away from the town I’d lived in for the majority of my 25 years on this earth. As I said earlier, of all the places on earth that hold some sort of meaning for any random person, that town holds special meaning for me. In the end my excuse for moving was that I couldn’t find a job but any way you slice it, it was just “time.” Time to cut the apron strings, time to make an attempt to strike out on my own.. in a way, anyhow. The surroundings were beginning to take a toxic toll on me, and while it would be easy to blame it on the town (because what can the town say in its defense?), I have to remind myself that it’s me that was changing.

A plant will not flourish if its roots are constricted to a too-small pot. On the contrary, it will begin to wither and die. On the other hand.. if you throw a fish into a bigger pond, it will grow in size according to its surroundings. It wasn’t that the town was closing in on me. I was outgrowing the town. And while I was deathly afraid of how homesick I would be upon my departure, the pleasant surprise has been how little of that place I miss. Friends, yes. Places and their associations, not so much. I relocated myself to a bigger pot, a bigger pond, and on the whole I would say that I am much happier for it. Whether or not I will outgrow my new surroundings.. well, only time will tell.

First book of 2010!

 

This book has been through a lot. Photo (c) r.smith 2010

This is actually a re-read, and I don’t think I posted anywhere about it the first time I read it.. but even if I did, that was over a year ago as I recall, and I feel like it bears repeating.

Ballad of the Whiskey Robber: A True Story of Bank Heists, Ice Hockey, Transylvanian Pelt Smuggling, Moonlighting Detectives, and Broken Hearts is the true story of Attila Ambrus, Hungarian “folk hero” (as proclaimed by his countrymen).

Just as it was the first time I read this book, I could not put it down. Proof positive that truth is stranger than fiction.. Whenever I first started reading it, after I intially received it, I actually had to do a little online research to see if it was a biographical book or a work of fiction. (Despite the fact that the title states it’s a true story, yes. It was just that off-the-wall.) For me, one of the only things reminding me that it’s non-fiction is the skillful way in which the author weaves the tumultuous history of this area of the world throughout the story. He succeeds in creating another character out of Hungary, as if it were another person in the already outrageous cast, as opposed to it merely being a setting or a background for the events that unfold.

He also manages to perfectly capture and re-create for the reader the conflict between a blundering police force bent on serving justice to what they consider a “dangerous criminal,” and the rest of the country who sees the man as a modern day Robin Hood.. Robbing from a government that has failed all but the richest of its citizens and has opened the door for other countries to prosper off of their natural resources while returning no benefits to Hungary.

For fans of fiction and non-fiction alike, I would recommend this book. Bet you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference if you didn’t already know.  :)