Home at Last

This whirlwind of a “goodbye” tour as it may is finally drawing to an end. I think I’ve about approached my limit, as I considered murdering the sarcastic old asshole in line in front of me in the security line, who held up 30 people while he and his 20+years younger wife unloaded their life’s possessions and packed a double stroller slow as can be into the x-ray belt.

I’m on the final leg. Salt Lake to Portland. What the hell put me in Salt Lake, you may ask? Was I considering a conversion to professional hobby skiing and Mormonism? Nope, just the really awesome connecting flight I was forced to change to thanks to my terrier of a supervisor in Kampala, who clearly failed to understand why extra connections, hours spent waiting and purchasing more overpriced food and baggage checking (gotta love flying now-a-days) wasn’t worth a $50 discounted ticket.

Alas. I ran my ass off from the gate to get to my connecting flight, and find myself sitting next to another entity with sickeningly sweet breath, wafting in my direction as he sleeps mouth open, faintly reminiscent of cheerios (granted, he’s probably 6 years old) which is only a slight upgrade from the last guy who just needed to learn to floss, and lose a few so his overbearing presence in a middle seat doesn't automatically share with both flanking seats. I really need to start to fly first class.

Grandma’s house in San Diego was good for a visit, I put in valuable face time, and acquired an antique watch fob, no less. Inside are pictures of her grandmother, Esther, and Esthers’ parents (my great, great, great grandparents), and her two sisters and one of her two brothers. The pictures are probably circa 1890 or so… and Grandma passed it on as she thinks I find family history fascinating (she is right), but also mainly because when I was 16, I completed a family tree project in US history that required months of geneology research and scanning microfilm in the creepy dusty canals of the Portland public library. I re-read part of what I had written, surprised at the breadth of detail. I used to be a damn good student! What happened in college? (not like I bombed out, but damn!)

Back in the time of WordPerfect and gluing cutout graphics on printed computer paper, I wrote of Esther’s family history, as this was the most information readily available to me. Her father, Saul, was a first-line immigrant to the US, where his given surname of Krotke was changed to Marks. He was called “Uncle Sam” by Roseburg, Oregon residents, as he was highly regarded and ran probably the main (or only general store) as well as helped develop and found the town. I always knew I was an Oregonian, and have felt a certain pride at this fact among the fake-bespectacled and tight pants-ed transplant hipsters cruising around town on their fixed gear, custom painted bicycles… but it was interesting to be reminded that I’m actually a 5^th generation Oregonian.
(Albeit one that tends to run away from time to time for periods of 6-10 months).

I have already internalized the excitement to spend the rest of the summer in Portland, my home. My preoccupation and curiosity instead lies in how long it will take before I become restless and itinerant again. I have tried to warp my head around a plan to continue work with Volcanoes within some other capacity, in fact, I think I somehow managed to convince my boss that I would be a solid investment and valuably worth considering in a management, alternative position, to be proposed entirely by me. The problem is instead the age-old adage, “Careful, you might get what you wish for.” And I’m not sure if I want to go back to living in Uganda right now. Part of me wants to take a breather and settle into life in Portland, maybe plan a trip for the middle of the winter as a break, and work for myself in Mary Kay, where the outcome is measurable and tangible. I’m looking forward to finding a rhythm that makes sense again, no doubt involving various degrees of soccer, yoga, laughs with friends, outdoor time, peddling Mary Kay, illegally downloading episodes of True Blood and new music…. it’s hard to make a plan right now to disrupt all that again come winter.

I’m not sure if I’ll keep this blog thing up. It’s nice to throw thoughts out there, but maybe it’s time to retire myself to plain old, boring occasional journal writing and bitching with friends. I do hope to keep a hopeful sense of wonder in my surroundings, not fall back into the dangerous pull of depression, staleness, and negativity, and a general disgust at American consumerism, greed and ignorance. It really is a beautiful place to live, if you create that place, water the lawn, pull the weeds and fill your yard with people you love.

Until next time.