“Well…I’m from Shreveport.” She said with such a languid draw that I mentally pulled up a wicker chair leaned back and enjoyed the conversation. She was from my second home state, and I always found myself easily conversing with people from Louisiana. I planned to “not retire” there part-time. I say not retire, because I don’t believe in retiring, I believing in living straight to the end…the grand finale, which will probably be me in my New Orleans balcony apartment on such a morning as this, with the light streaming in through the shotgun windows and French doors wide open letting the heat and humidity lull me into a deep sleep.
Know your home.
Know what you love.
I love hot humid days, slow time, coffee on the deck, high up like a New Orleans balcony. I need sunshine as much as I need to drink water. But I need the type of heat that has been tempered by old souls like the NOLA people, hardy and mysterious magnolia tree folk.
The breeze is hitting my face like a Sunday sermon fan. The bells of St. Gertrude are calling people to mass, and I’ve found my mass here on the deck being home and thinking of home.
Isn’t it wonderful when you know your home? To have more than one?
I sink back in the chair, propped up by a fuzzy pillow, soak in the heat and sigh a happy sigh.