As a young girl, I couldn't wait to leave. To shake the dust off my Bass blucher moccasins and get out of this town that never understood me. Suitcases in hand, I tore out of here eager to separate myself from the smallness of my life here.
It wasn't long before I accepted the fact that the very thing I didn't want to be defined by was the one thing that defined me most.
I am a small town girl, and I'm thankful.
Thankful that I live in a place where my morning commute is slowed by tractors and trucks carrying hay bales rather than stop lights and cars with horns blaring;
that rush hour traffic means that my drive home takes 15 minutes instead of 12;
that if I forget my wallet, I can walk into the bank and get money from my account;
that I can feel comfortable when my daughter spends time at her friends' homes, because I've known their parents since we were children ourselves;
that she has classes with first cousins and can ride the bus to my parents' house;
that my town is the kind of place where you can buy a pumpkin in the gas station parking lot;
that the post office has a dry erase board with birthdays and community announcements.
So what if I listen to Yo-Yo Ma while driving a truck? This is where I belong.
Today, I am thankful for home.