Feels Like Home

I’m adrift in time. My new West Virginia house and neighborhood hail from the era of my childhood dwelling in North Carolina. During early morning walks, I am daily struck by the split-levels and landscapes reminiscent of the ones my dad worked so hard to maintain. I remember the huge pecan trees on that property and my efforts upon returning from school each day to collect fallen nuts before squirrels got them. I enjoyed that yard and that house, a safe and happy place.

One of the streets I currently walk down is newer, with large, more expensive homes. The street is also wider than mine, which is so narrow, two vehicles can barely pass each other without trading paint. Despite it providing more space for walkers (why can’t they build sidewalks?), I feel no comfort on that street, an unfamiliar land. I prefer the older streets, so conducive to living in the past, relishing memories of a place from long ago.

A curious thing about life in this new environment, though. I’ve begun farting. A lot.

What is up with that?

Is farting a part of aging? Is 72 some sort of magic number? Are farts magical?

When I get up in the morning, pfft. When I stand from my chair after eating breakfast—or any meal for that matter—pfffrt. On my morning walks, farts come so frequently I thank God I’m walking alone so that I don’t have to keep saying excuse me to a companion. In church, the music is usually loud enough to cover the sound, for which I am grateful.

Thankfully, they’re quick little toots that seem to be all noise and no smell. But then… maybe they do smell and I’m unaware since my sniffer hasn’t been working. Maybe that explains why none of my West Virginia cousins have reached out to welcome me to their state. But people at church and at least a few of my neighbors have welcomed me, so the smell must not be too noxious.

I wonder what’s causing these farts. Am I so relaxed in this new place that muscles have lost their strength? Or do I need to relax more so no sound comes out? Of course, then something more than air might make an appearance.

My parents were from West Virginia, but I spent very little time here during my growing years. My mother was badly scarred from her abusive home environment, and visits were more than her heart could bear, emotionally or physically (she had a defective heart valve resulting from untreated childhood rheumatic fever.) 

I guess I’ve come full circle, with all the ancestors I know about having been West Virginians. Maybe I’m meant to be in these ancient hills, finding a new way in an old and somewhat familiar setting. Maybe the farts are simply propelling me into a different phase of life. Who knows what power is yet to be unleashed.

Home. Pfffrt.