Driving to my new home in Boston, the car packed with bags and anticipation, I made the novice mistake of trying to turn left on a busy street where there was no left turn.
Cars whizzed by, horns honked wildly.
Greetings flew through the air: “Get off the fucking road, you idiot.”
I thought, Well this is a very nice welcome.
Little did I know…
I fell in love with this place. It’s a place that resonates deeply within me.
It now feels like a lifetime since I first drove into town, knowing next to nothing about Boston, Mass.
Now I’m moving again – a bit grayer, more years on the docket, more time under my belt, and filled with gratitude for my time here, reflecting on all this place has bestowed upon me.
I ate my way through the local delicacies. Did you know that Whoopie pies, Necco wafers, and Fig Newtons all got their start in Massachusetts?
I walked the cobblestone history with my babies and went to Plymouth Plantation as a parent escort. (Ask my kids, they’ll assure you I was way more excited than they were.)
I learned what it means to be a New Englander. The term “Yankee” has an entirely different context from where I grew up.
I discovered how to be a sports fan, joined Patriots Nation, and paid homage to the “Big Green Monstah.”
I wove my way through these cow-paths-turned-major-roadways, got the hang of the rotaries, and how to properly bang-a-uey.
I reveled in the seasons here. The tough-as-nails attitude comes from the bitter cold, I’m sure of it. You just can’t shovel that much snow and stay soft. I’m now a person who goes out in sub-freezing temperatures without a coat.
I was here when the Marathon bombing happened, crying with the rest of the world as we watched that tragedy unfold.
I lived through the Pandemic here, and now, after all that, we’re moving on.
I’m going to miss this place, and the people who I’ve had the privilege and pleasure to know. And I’ll carry it in my heart forward.