Can't go home again (again)

Last night's walk shared one element with my usual summer walks back in Ohio: the heat. I need to remember to take water with me if I'm going to sweat that much.

I walked on roads just as twisty as the ones back home in Ohio, except in Florida I'm not walking on gravel or climbing steep hills and I don't have Hopeful with me to share the fun. I saw live oak instead of sycamore and crepe myrtle instead of milkweed, and I saw more cars in a block than I normally see in three miles. No deer, wild turkeys, groundhogs, or foxes here; just lots of people walking interesting dogs.

I walked along a street where I used to sell Girl Scout cookies door to door and I passed houses where I washed windows to earn money for a trip with my church youth group. I didn't see a soul I knew, but I haven't lived here since about 1980 so that's hardly surprising. A house up the block from my parents still bears the name of my seventh-grade English teacher. I wonder whether she'd remember me?

I once carried within me a flawless map of the neighborhood, but now the roads blend together. I turned a corner and suddenly found the football field where I played flute in the marching band (until I quit the band to join the school newspaper, instantly improving the quality of both institutions). With streets named Loch Lomond, Dunblane, and St. Andrews and a school named Glendridge (where the school colors were Stewart plaid), it's a wonder that we didn't have bagpipes in the marching band.

There are no hills here but I made a point of walking as close as I could get to the nearest lake, although I caught only a few glimpses of water between the houses. New streets and new developments have risen from the orange groves, and one of these days I'll explore them. It doesn't feel quite like home, but it's comfortable and for now I suppose it'll do.