Here I am back in exile, on the wrong side of the river. Only a churlish malcontent could be ungrateful for my fabulous life, but I sure do miss red brick and city sights: old hippies in sombreros cruising Chouteau in vintage Ford Fairlanes, young loft rats nursing their hangovers with French presses in sidewalk cafés, the babble of many nations at Soulard Market, etc. Don't make me cry! Oh, sure, it could be worse: I could be living in that outer ring of Hell known as Chesterfield instead of in this natural beauty spot, but sometimes a girl just feels like whining. I was able to download one of my favorite songs (500 Miles Away From Home by Bobby Bare) this weekend to remind me of my homesickness:
"Can't remember when I ate
It's just thumb and walk and wait
And I'm still five hundred miles away from home
If my luck had been just right
I'd be with them all tonight
But I'm still five hundred miles away from home
Away from home, away from home
Cold and tired and all alone
Yes, I'm five hundred miles away from home."
I'm actually only 35 miles away, and neither cold nor alone. Plus, there's always knitting to soothe my rusticated soul. Gotta make those Pear and Trellis stockings!
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