The Town That Built Me

Introduction

So, they say that you can never go back home and, that sometimes to find yourself you have to get a little lost. Well, I’ve gone back home many times over the last 30 years or so and parts of home have changed so much that I often get lost. What’s my point? Well, first off, you can go back home, physically but I think what they mean is that it’s never going to be the place you once knew it to be.  I’m venturing into a new blog, maybe more appropriately, a journey blog to explore those two concepts. Going back home and finding yourself.

I’m not a huge fan of the term “find yourself.” I’m not lost. Not physically or mentally (depending on the day and who you ask). I know where I am. I’m just not always sure how I got here. I’m conscious of the fact that life, choices and maybe a little fate have brought me to this mid-forties, family with a dog, mostly responsible adult, but how exactly? I honestly am sometimes surprised at the outcome of my life so far. This is not the road I was on in my early twenties for sure, and looking at my childhood and statistics, I should probably be a homeless dropout with too many children and addicted to alcohol or drugs. I’m beyond grateful for where I am and the people and experiences that have brought me here. I’m not out to question if I deserve this, I know I don’t. I just want to take some time to look at where I’ve come from and truly appreciate the journey that has been my life so far.

I was born on December 8, 1970, the second child to a mother and father that by all accounts should not have had children. They tried but their own torments prevented them from being parents. They divorced when I was too young to remember and my brother and I bounced between them and grandparents until we finally landed with my mothers mother. I’m forever thankful that this allowed my brother and I to stay together along with a younger sister. We grew up in Marshalltown, Iowa. A quiet, not too large, not too small, midwest town.

This blog will follow as much of my childhood as I can piece together by the homes we lived in (and there are many), along with other places of significance to me. As I’ve grown older and people have moved away I don’t find myself visiting much but when I do I find that I miss the little girl that use to roam the alleys and streets on her bike in pursuit of her brother and his friends.  The girl that believed angels were never far away.  The girl that use to sit in her bedroom window watching the lights of town and listening to records (or vinyl for you millennials) dreaming of the boy that I knew was out there waiting just for me with no thought to what a broken heart was.

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