I haven’t been to my parents’ house in almost a year.  Of course (of course?  Isn’t that a luxury phrase these days) I’ve seen them in the past year, we’ve just met in exotic locales like New York and Atlanta rather than Montgomery.  I had almost forgotten what being at home–well, their home–is like. I had forgotten that the leaves turn gold here too.  I relearned this on my run this morning.  I usually don’t have good runs when I’m away from my current home.  Familiarity breeds comfort for me, and even though I would never describe any run I’ve ever had as comfortable, the ones in New York are by and large not the battles that the ones away from the city are.  But the run today was good, mostly.  The kind of run where my body cooperates with me rather than fighting me (God must enjoy us most when we do the same thing); the kind where I feel strong and even the sore knee and bum ankle decide to come out to play with the rest of the machinery instead of crying in the corner and holding the rest of me hostage; the kind where I sprint the last couple of minutes brimming with ideas rather than exhaustion.

Other less golden things I forgot: what humidity does to my lungs and hair; how fifty-one degrees can turn into sixty-one in the span of a few minutes; how yelling as a primary form of communication sounds and feels.  Luckily, I got some practice with that last one on the way to LaGuardia yesterday with my cab driver.  I had a feeling that at some point I would end up on the short end of the city-wide cabbies’ resentment of the credit card payment option.  One yelling match in front of the Delta terminal later, I prepared to board my flight more than a little riled up and looking forward to more genteel, Southern interactions.  Which I find on the sidewalks here if not behind closed doors.  Like the car that came to a complete stop to let me cross the street this morning.  My New York attitude found it mildly irritating, this brazen politeness from strangers.  Time for an attitude adjustment. These streets and sidewalks are padded with etiquette rather than sprayed with urine, and walking barefoot is a nice option to have.

So after watching half of a scary movie last night (translates into only half the nightmares; we watched the rest this morning), we spent today invading Target, pillaging Chick-Fil-A, and spending time with family.  Where I heard that there is a person in this city named NIMROD.  The explanation being, “It’s a family name.”  Hmmm….some traditions deserve to be broken.  Like Southern pretension and giving your kids names that make them sound like assholes.  But butter….butter should never be left behind.  (The sis called on her way to the store to get more because she had run out.  Good sign.)  Butter and buffets, like the one we’ll be hitting tonight.  That is, after the dog stops barking at the Nimrod in the window.  He can be cute in between barks, though.  Not unlike others in this house.