Gravity

I left Baltimore when I was 17, leaving behind everyone and everything I had known up to that point. Since then, I’ve never truly felt settled. No matter how far I’ve traveled, how breathtaking the vistas I’ve seen, or how fascinating the people I’ve met, there was always this persistent attraction, like gravity’s pull of a massive star on a small, wayward rock in space, towards the mid-Atlantic region of the U.S. 

I’d joined the Air Force and, like many others in the military regardless of the branch of service they’re in, I moved from place to place when ordered to do so. But military life, while vastly different and far more interesting than my life on the streets of Baltimore, was too restrictive for me. I was honorably discharged after 9 years of service. My wife wanted me to remain in the military for a full two decades and retire. In retrospect, I likely should have, but at the time, staying in was becoming increasingly difficult for me. I felt like I was missing out on a technological revolution, something I believed I needed to be a part of. This was the early 1980s, when computers were just beginning to permeate every aspect of people’s lives. I firmly believed that my career, my future, was intimately dependent on that blossoming technology. So, I left the military, dragging my pregnant wife, my son, and a miniature Schnauzer from North Carolina to California in a tiny Honda, and in search of a new life. 

From that point on, I went wherever an opportunity to advance my career presented itself, and often those opportunities were in places I’d never imagined I’d be. Places with names like Redondo Beach, California; Winooski, Vermont; East Fishkill, New York; Ashdod, Israel; and Oviedo, Florida. Ultimately I wound up in Florida, but regardless of where I landed, there was always that familiar, subtle, but insistent pull, an unfulfilled yearning that, at times, I couldn’t quite articulate and I could never adequately satisfy.

After my children grew up and started their own families, and after my marriage ended, I found myself in a position where I could, if I truly wanted to, allow myself to be drawn by that subtle attraction. I suppose, at that time, I didn’t want to. I had built a life in Florida. I had close relationships and places where I could simply be myself. Yet that yearning persisted, refusing to be suppressed or ignored. 

In 2017, after weathering an emotional storm, I found that I needed to travel and make a positive impact on some cause, to focus on something beyond my personal interests. So, I joined the Peace Corps. That was an incredible and fulfilling adventure, but in 2020, COVID abruptly ended it, leaving me back in Florida with that ever-present yearning, persistently beckoning.

Deciding to leave a place that has been your home for over three decades isn’t easy. I grappled with that question for a very long time. I was aware that, just as when I left Baltimore many years ago, I would be leaving behind so much that had become an integral part of who I am. It takes time to adapt to a new environment, even one that was once familiar to me. I would be trading cherished relationships, familiar places where I’ve always felt welcome, and the comforting warmth that comes with familiarity for strangers, new places, and periods of loneliness. If my decision had been solely based on emotions, I probably would have chosen to stay. However, other factors influenced my choice, and yes, that persistent yearning weighed heavily in my ultimate decision to leave.

Now, several months after moving to a place just north of Greenville, S.C., I’ve begun to settle. I don’t need Apple Maps to find my way around anymore. There’s a bar in a restaurant that I stop in from time to time. The barkeep knows me well enough to have a Modelo Negra with lime on the counter by the time I pull up a stool. I’ve met some interesting people in that restaurant too; a retired lawyer who’s lived in the area since 1995, another Florida transplant who shuffles between a tiny house in the hills of Tennessee with an amazing view to D.C. with Greenville as his way station, a comedian who’s promoting a show to support The American Cancer Society, and so many more.

There are real seasons here too; the luminous mating dance of fireflies in the summer, a kaleidoscope of colors in the  autumn, biting cold winds in winter.  

And snow!

I hadn’t been in a significant snowfall in more than 20 years and it was wonderful to see. I had a silly grin plastered on my face to whole day while it snowed. I was so inspired by it that I produced a short video. You can see it by clicking on the photos..

As I look forward to spring, I’ve noticed that the yearning that has been my constant companion for so very long is quieter now. While it still lingers, its influence has diminished. Instead of dominating my quiet moments, it now coexists with a more reserved presence. I interpret this as a positive sign, indicating that I’m on the right path, that being here where the trees dress and undress to fit the seasons, and where the landscape undulates like frozen mountainous waves towards the horizon, feels like it’s where I need to be. The yearning’s continued presence, however, suggests that there is still more I need to do.

My sister recently texted me about an event that might finally satisfy that yearning. In May of this year, my paternal family members will gather in southern Virginia for a reunion. I believe the southern Virginia border, westward towards West Virginia, is the epicenter of the attractive force that has been tugging at me for most of my life.

I don’t know much about my father’s family or its history. I do know that both my mother and father originally came from the southwestern region of Virginia, and that there are many who bear the Seward family name who still call that area home. In fact, I had seriously considered settling there myself. 

I intend to go to this reunion in hopes that I can learn more about why I’m so drawn to that place. 

There’s a memory I have, a recollection so old it’s like a faded photograph, that might hold some clues.

When I was very young, maybe 3 or 4 years old, I remember a long trip that my father took me on. I recall seeing lots of trees as he drove for what seemed like hours and hours. When we finally stopped we had pulled into a long dirt driveway, each side was walled by tall green corn stalks. At the end of the driveway stood a modest house. A huge tree stood next to the house.

During one of my visits to Baltimore as an adult my sister told me that the house with the tree exists. The house and the farmland around it belongs to a relative on my father’s side. The memory has left me wondering, and hoping, that that place is what has been pulling at me all these years, that my returning to it will finally sate that yearning and I can find some peace.

I look forward to May.

Stay tuned,

Vern