The "Hometown" phenomena has always seemed strange to me. Or perhaps I am estranged from it. People ask me about my hometown. I have no attachment to any town, or even any house in particular. I do know that I spent my very lucky childhood running in the woods. I grew up with room to see how far I could leap, to see how fast I could get from point a to point b. I grew up cutting my bare feet on barnacles and having my young skin slashed by tall blades of grass. I grew up not being called back until dinner and believing that I was in the company of magic.
I grew up listening to the trees, the ferns and the dirt. The very Earth herself was my shelter, my home. I played endlessly on our family's land with my brother. Our land is my "hometown." Just up off of the shores of Oyster Bay, our land sits atop a modest ridge. A meadow stretches down to the back half where it slowly melts into ferns and old growth. The moss becomes soaked with rain and smells like the calm. It smells to me like perhaps apple pie smells to others. To me it smells like home.