The long haul

I’m looking into the back of an empty U-Haul trailer for the umpteenth time over the past few years. Kids’ stuff going to the college dorm, then back, then to an apartment, then back, then to a house, then back, then across a couple of state lines to our new house in California.

We had hoped this latest move would launch at least one of our kids closer to our new location.

Not this time, California. I'm loading the U-Haul again.

I wondered if it was the guy that cut us off on the freeway (okay, there have been more than a dozen of you), the homeless wanderers in the grocery store parking lot, the sushi on that really hot summer day (such a mistake). There was city haze, so-so coffee houses, pushy people in a hurry to get nowhere.

But wait. There was a Giants game, Apple Hill, farmer’s markets, Lake Tahoe, picture-perfect days. What went wrong?

Just a few months after the last haul, I’m driving down a lonely stretch of highway with the U-Haul rattling behind. Could I really feel so positive about a place and my daughter feel so opposite? It hits me that while California tugs at my heart, Idaho tugs at hers.

It’s California’s story – and more so, these days. We’re from other states, other countries and trying to find our place here. Our loyalties are divided and we’re not quite sure where we belong. Can we belong to more than one place?

Minutes across the border into Idaho and I’m looking at a mountain vista that is so beautiful it hurts my eyes. There is a purity in the greens and blues of field and sky that I haven’t seen anywhere else. It draws people and keeps them fiercely loyal. We moved there 13 years ago and I feel a twinge of regret as I see it again.

I stay a week in Boise, visiting and enjoying the friendliness of the place. My eyes keep resting on the hills behind the city. I’m glad my children call this place home. It feels strange to think of the airplane that will take me home, somewhere else, to California.

It’s a crisp morning that ushers in my last day in Idaho. My favorite furry vest feels soft and comforting, and I’m reflective as I watch the city of Boise disappear from view far below.

The plane crosses the last of the Sierra and dips into the long valley that snakes through the middle of the state. Checkerboard fields come into view, green sprouting up from the flooded squares and some are golden, their season completed. Black swarms of birds rise and fall as one. I've always loved this sight.

I used to joke that I was a Cali-hoan – half Californian, half Idahoan – and I realize it’s now true. But divided loyalties like this aren’t bad. I know lots of people who talk wistfully of the places they’ve left, but don’t want to return. Their decision has been made to make a new place their home.

My husband greets me at the airport. He looks a little worried as he asks, “Glad to be back?”

I shrug off my fuzzy-lined vest as the warmth of the day hits me. I don’t hesitate in responding.

“Yes.”