People Who Need People

There's an oft touched upon theme throughout my ramblings. The notion of one's "people". If you've ever read The Shipping News (or seen it as well) it's a very salt of the earth kinda thing - usually relating to small towns - almost always New England, the Deep South or barren parts of Canada. The Aunt (please don't ask me to remember names other than the fact that she was played by Judi Dench - a Shakespearean goddess!) talks about how (insert name played by Kevin Spacey here) will be fine because he's a Coyle/Quoyle/who the hell knows what the darn name is and this is where his people are from. The only thing I remember is when she says, matter of factly, "You have to be with your people."

The other day on the boat, I was teasing someone from Newport about her accent. She laughed and said "But you're the one with the accent." How many times I've discussed that very thing throughout my acting and dialectitian career. It's always the other guy who has the accent. And she was right. I'm the stranger, the foreigner. No matter how long I may be here, no matter how much I may care, I will always "have the accent". Maybe I'll start saying "cah" instead of "car" or "draw" instead of "drawer". Who knows, I might even end up sounding like the Pepperidge Farm guy who did the commercials when I was a kid - and we all know how fake his accent was. But no matter how New England-ized I become, and I'm not all that certain I want to be (no insult intended) I will eventually say something mid-western and give myself away. Whether it's "coke" for all sodas, or "sghetti red" instead of "spaghetti" (which is a really old mid-westernism that most mid-westerners don't even use anymore) or "sack" instead of "bag". Little things will give me away and invariably someone will say "You're not from these parts (pahts), are you?" in a kindly, well-intentioned way...not unlike the way I say it to others. And I'll make some friendly chatter about where I'm from and how I ended up so far from home and then I'll go home and I'll sit at the computer for hours looking up web sites of home because I no longer have any pictures or mementos to remind me of my life, my home and my people. (But that's another story altogether)

It's nights like these, the ones I really go mad for, the ones that bring out my true inner self...misty, foggy, not too cold and not too warm, silent and alone (I do so miss my alone time) that makes me homesick. And it's not like I'm from Ireland or anything. Although I am part Irish, but that's a ways back and those aren't really my people. It's because I once had a beautiful best friend in high school (who later betrayed me cruelly and crushingly - but that's another story) who used to drive me everywhere and teach me about the day to day things that my parents never bothered to. And on nights like these, we would drive down Blue River Road (which, a month or two later would be filled with the flickerings of fireflies and it was like driving through an enchanted glade) and watch for large patches of fog at the soccer fields right next to the water. I have always been drawn to the fog. She knew that. Our Fantastic Seven knew that. [Fantastic Seven: Everybody had one in whatever numerical combination it might be. That group in high school that were tighter than your own family. Wherever you were, they were close behind.] It was nights like these that Renee, Kathy and I dressed up like...dragon ladies, I think it was and "kidnapped" Erik for his birthday. It was a night like this that Patrick and I waltzed in the Taco Bell parking lot under the parking light. It was a night almost like this that Jeff and I broke up and, interestingly enough, it was a night almost exactly like this that I first kissed the great love of my life in my dad's F-150 - the second one that replaced the one that got hit by a train with him in it.

On nights like this, I want so badly to put on Hall and Oates (thankfully I don't own any) because they were the big thing at the time, dim the lights, light the candles and stroll down memory lane. These memories give me such happiness...and some chagrin. But then it hits me. I'm separated from my people. And I wonder any more if there's anyone on this earth, or at least in this country, who understands what that means. To be culled from the herd, separated from the pack, dead to your past. To feel your heart called again and again and to not be able to answer.

I long to hear a true Missouri twang. I want to drive everywhere I used to go and drink it all in: Arrowhead Stadium, Independence Mall, Quality Hill Playhouse, the Unicorn Theatre, Park College...oh, the drive along the Missouri River in the fall was always breathtaking. No New England foliage, but still beautiful. I want to eat at Gates & Sons and have people yell at me "Hi, may I hep you?" as only a native city dweller can. I want to visit the children's books at the downtown public library and I want to talk to people who don't ask for an explanation when I say that they'll never do anything with The Quay. In fact, I'd love to talk to someone who knows how to properly pronounce The Quay. I want to gaze at The Scout statue overlooking the city and live in Blue Springs. I want to stay in a cabin at The Ozarks every fall because the most incredible morning of my life happened there. Only one person in this world knows what made that morning so incredible. It was the most deep and perfect night's sleep of my life. The kind that books and movies talk about where you wake up naturally and completely refreshed. We were in sweats and buried beneath mounds of quilts and our noses were cold where they just barely peeked out from under the covers. The cabin smelled just a little of the previous evening's fire and when I stretched, every bone in my back aligned itself perfectly and without fuss. I woke up in amber light, staring at the face of pure, unadulterated love. That's the true definition of romance right there, folks: sweats, quilts, and old stale smoke.

This isn't what I sat down to write about. For the life of me, I can't recall what it is I did sit down to write about. I love this craggy, grouchy, imperfect island. But a very intangible, incredibly important part of me is missing. And that's the part that being with "your people" is all about. I embrace the challenge that moving to a state like Maine offers, and I hope that we are successful as a family there. But I know in my heart, that I will never be truly, honestly content until I'm standing in a dark, misty, cool night in the Missouri springtime.

So say we all...