When I was a kid, we moved a lot. My dad is a mechanical designer, which is apparently a field with a lot of variance. As market demands changed, we’d find ourselves packing up and moving again and again and again. In many respects, it was great. I got to experience a lot of different cultures made friends all over the US and Canada. As an adult, I’ve kind of continued that habit, and I find myself moving every couple of years–if not months. At last count, I have lived in
- Ontario (Coldwater and Orillia)
- New York (Rochester, Perry, and Saranac Lake)
- Georgia (Douglasville, Austell, and Savannah)
- Michigan (Port Huron and Marysville)
- Idaho (Kuna and Meridian)
- South Carolina
- North Carolina
- New Mexico (5 times)
But as fun as it has been, I’ve discovered in recent years that I don’t really have one place that I call home. I’ve enjoyed every place that I’ve lived (except for that one place, but I’m not going to tell you which one it is…), but I don’t pine for many places. In fact, until recently, there were only two places that held such a special place in my heart that I actually felt homesick for them–like, literal-physical-ache-in-the-heart-that-nothing-can-relieve kind of homesick. Those places were the cabin my grandparents built in Ontario, Canada, and Philmont.
And then I came to Newcastle. I knew I’d love it because HELLO, ENGLAND, but I definitely didn’t expect to love it this much. I’ve never considered myself a city girl–crowds and noise and a general lack of critters and lots of streets for my directionally-challenged brain to confuse? No thank you. But there is certainly something to be said for the life and character of a city, and I do think I could live here indefinitely and be quite happy about it.
And when I think of the places I love–I mean, truly, madly, deeply love–Newcastle has earned itself a permanent spot on the list.