Finding Familiar

Have you ever moved to a land where no-one knows your name? I did. Yes, 25 years ago I left Altoona, Pennsylvania, and moved to Albuquerque, New Mexico, or as the locals refer to the state, “The Land of Enchantment.” I learned how to drive through the city to my office, how to order lunch stressing no green or red chiles on my plate, how to walk in the desert without cholla jaggers sticking like needles on my jeans, and how to look up to the Southwest sky and yell “hi there” as a hot air balloon filled with a basket of exuberant passengers glides over my roof headed south.

After four years, I left the state of New Mexico. Left my new friends and my cowboy boots behind, left my job, my adobe style house, and my church home.

Now I’m back. Back where the sky never ends and the sunsets are soaked with blue, purple, orange and red streams. Back where a roadrunner tiptoes across my patio jumping into the birdbath for a sip of water. Back where the prickly pear cactus crawls up my stucco house to obscure the window and back where the Mariachi serenade me at the local restaurant filling the air with guitar plucks and violin pitches.

Coming back brought changes. Traffic has multiplied causing backups of vehicles waiting for lights. More schools have appeared over the dusty-brown parched desert dirt and new urban-style hospitals tower the skyline looking out-of-place beside adobe buildings. Restaurants are abundant, advertising “We Are Open” to hungry customers who had been frustrated by the COVID closures months ago.

But life for me sparks with the renewing of friends – familiar friends who greet me with hugs and laughs, aging neighbors who ask me to stay forever, and churchgoers who remember me from so long ago.

The first week back in Albuquerque, I visited the church that used to be home for me. Guess what! The parishioners remembered me! Even with my mask tightly anchored around the bottom half of my face, my eyeliner smushing my skin and my voice muffled by the N95 cloth, they remembered me! COVID had reached New Mexico and strict masking laws were being enforced in the schools, churches, hospitals, and businesses.

I eagerly introduced myself to the new choir director and joined the choir. Familiar was coming back. Familiar felt good, warm, loving, safe.

The church photographer approached me, a young woman with long blonde hair cascading down her back, a camera in her hand. She introduced herself telling me that she was from California. I eagerly told her that I was from Pennsylvania. “Where?” she said, as she added that her husband was from Pennsylvania.

“Altoona.” I always say Altoona because no-one seemed to ever hear of a town called Martinsburg. Her voice became louder and more excited as she waved her hands for her husband to join us.

“I’m Max,” he said, “and I’m from Bellwood.”

“I’m from Martinsburg!” I blurted. We gave each other a hefty hug.

Max is stocky and in his early fifties, and I imagine has a welcoming smile under his mask. Wearing jeans, t-shirt and gym shoes, he seemed very friendly and approachable.

I asked him if he knew what gobs are and he said, “of course.” “Do you know what rid up means?” He did! We lingered in the church pew sharing words, phrases, and Blair County history. The last phrase he said to me as he left the church was, “Youins be good.”

I talk to Max every Sunday and realize that I have a “touch of home, “a “touch of the familiar.” Do you know what I have packed in my music bag for this Sunday’s visit with Max? I’m giving him a copy of The Morrisons Cove Herald newspaper.