From China Village

{My China Village home, decked out for the Fourth of July}

Some days, the name of this little blog drives me a little nuts. It make sense to me and probably people who know me and who know Maine, but I worry that it’s a hard to understand for people who don’t know me or haven’t heard of China Village. In fact, the most common question I get about my blog is what does the name mean?

I usually reply that it’s the name of the town where I grew up, but what I write and share and babble about here is more than just my little lakeside town. It’s hard to capture in a soundbite, but sometimes it pops up in moments and I think to myself, See? That’s why the name makes sense!

Last Saturday night, I had one of those moments. Michael was upstairs in my parents’ house in Maine trying to squeeze every last inch out of our suitcases to fit all the crazy things I insist on bringing back to Ireland with me. Band aids, boxes of macaroni and cheese, maps and mementos, artfully packed into every nook and cranny of our suitcases.

Meanwhile, I was having mini-meltdowns about leaving. It happens every time I go home. About two days before our flight back, it starts to hit me. A sense of panic, maybe a little impending separation anxiety.

{Don’t worry, when the final goodbyes are said and I’m sitting on the plane, I can usually turn off the homesickness, compartmentalize it until the next visit. I’m only homesick when I’m home. Or at least, so I tell myself.}

I stood in the kitchen on Saturday evening, misty eyes, and hugged my mom and dad. (Family hug was one of my favorite tricks when I was little. I still think it’s a pretty great trick.) I may have been whining, I never want to leave. I always want to stay in China Village.

My mom, small and strong and sweet, Don’t worry, we’re doing the best we can.

My dad, through manly, dad tears, squeezed me and said, It’s okay, we didn’t raise you to live your whole life in China Village.

A precious gift, given every visit. Permission to go, to thrive across the ocean, to be happy in a life that’s so far away.

***

{China Village in autumn, and my old car, the Blueberry. Still clunking along, boxy but good.}

On Monday evening, back in Dublin, I lay awake in the middle of the night, fighting through jet lag and over-exhaustion, thinking of those words. We didn’t raise you to live your whole life in China Village. I know they would love me just as much if I chose to stay; a few tears again.

And then it occurred to me. But they did raise me to live my whole life from China Village. I’m a product of that first home, of small town values and a close family, of learning how to make and do and try for yourself, and of squeezing the life out of every season as they each roll on by.

That’s what my blog is about. Hard to summarize, a little sappy and a lot cozy. Small town charm, dotted with some big city bits and pieces. But the name fits, so the name stays.

I’m crying as I write this. I think my dad’s probably crying as he reads it. My mom’s probably a little teary too, but she won’t be so quick to admit it. The apple doesn’t fall far from the little China Village family tree.