Last evening I crossed into Oregon as the sun set on Mt.Shasta. Northern California feels a lot like southern Oregon, and vice versa. Somehow different than the flat open valleys filled with flowering almond trees, acres of olive trees, and fields of rice. Different from the warm humid cities of the Bay area, different from the thundering coastline, different from the rolling green hills covered with oaks and vineyards.
It’s strange how the pangs and twinges of homesickness can be held at arm’s length until one is finally homeward bound. I have missed my cat and my armchair and the pine trees outside my house. But now, as I point myself northward, I can hardly wait to be there. Back to the familiar tight valleys of the Cascades, the conifer-covered foothills that suck up the light, the dingy gray skies, and the cold. To people who are serious coffee drinkers, who read a lot, and are not too concerned with cosmetic procedures and fashion.
There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home…