Pittsboro: A Love Story [an essay by John]

So you've all heard me rattle on about how much I love where we live... here's John's take. He's so good with words! 

------

I find most people have a loose disinterest in nostalgia, but it’s a major component of my personality. I can’t help it; I feel compelled to elegize by the tidal circularity of living, and by the inevitable loss of the moments of one’s life that, in the aggregate, compose our existence—the way that existence winds down like a spinning top, our lives, in all their wonder, escaping minute by minute, into the unkeepable, unknowable ether.

It drives my girlfriend crazy—and I suppose I get why. I mean, this mentality occasionally leads to my holding up a piece of discarded wrapping paper I find in a catch-all drawer and gasping, misty eyed, “Rhianna! You wrapped the Ohio State pez dispenser you put in my stocking at Christmas two years ago in this! Awww… remember? That was such a nice Christmas…” Again, I can’t help it; I’m lucky to have a lot of memories I like revisiting, the only negative aspect of this being that, as though in some Melvillian Hallmark card, everything in my life tends to symbolize everything else. So I spend a lot of time allowing the present to carry me into the past through an overwrought network of associations and sentiment.

Now, owing to the above impulses to imbue my past with irrational romanticism, I have always cultivated a vehement sense of home, and keep that idea fiercely as a central tenet of my identity. Morgantown in the autumn, frozen winters in Granville: these are not merely places where I’ve stayed, they are places that have stayed with me, part of my understanding of self, coloring my conceptualization of the world. Because of all this, my sense of home is something like keenly honed, and is deeply important to me. But not just everywhere makes the grade, so to speak, especially when measured against the lovely specters of paradises past.

This had become, to be honest, a real bummer recently. I moved to North Carolina in 2007, and long story short, spent four years homesick: fall was nonexistent, it hardly ever rained, there’s no Stroh’s in NC, and everyone watches NASCAR*. I mean, they really watch it, like they know all the drivers’ names, their numbers, the “team” they’re on, which makes next to no sense to me, owing to NASCAR’s not being a team sport— except in the sponsorship and management of the team, which raises the question of… you know what, forget it, the point is I DON’T GET NASCAR, and people who do almost never get me. And maybe that’s all that needs said: there was home— autumn leaves the color of campfires, greasy spoon diners, the filigree of Christmas lights on a drapery of snow— and then there was North Carolina with its NASCAR. Also, grits. Also, subtle xenophobic isolationist Southernism complete with sentences ending in “these parts,” and Confederate flag bumper stickers—although perhaps this is redundant having already identified the NASCAR contingent.

Now ok, I’m being woefully narrow and unfair to NC, I acknowledge that, but I was tragically out of place: trying and failing to recognize the keystones of home in a foreign environment. Carolina Beach (my first stop in ’07) did, really, exhibit some of the above idiosyncrasies, but Hillsborough was a delight, and Carrboro would have been, if I was an entirely different person (i.e. smoked clove cigarettes). But I wasn’t a different person, and I struggled mightily to find any of myself resonant in my new southern surroundings. Or no, not new— in 2010 it occurred to me, somewhat horrifyingly, that I’d been in NC as long as I’d been in my beloved Morgantown, and as of 2011 I would have lived in North Carolina longer than any other state in my adulthood. Upon this realization my bags were packed. I’d had enough grits, enough 75 degree Decembers, enough of feeling like an outsider. I was headed back home, ready to declare my southern experiment dead. But, as it goes, a funny thing happened on the way to the funeral.

For one, of course, I found Rhi, who changed something like every aspect of my life for the better. And then, serendipitously, we found Pittsboro. Etymologically, the Germanic “boro” means “fort,” soooooooo, I guess the town was like a… pit fort? Or, I guess, many pits? Regardless, I almost instantly adored Pittsboro, finding it devoid of pits—and forts. Aside from the myriad charms of our little red house, the town itself was just full of darling wonders. In fact, this whole essay began as a list of places in our wonderful town. But somewhere along the way, after mentioning the fiddle shop, the coffee spot, the Italian restaurant offering— ready thy loins— complimentary wine, I couldn’t help but feel like I was falling short of doing justice to our new home. As I noted each admirable aspect of the place, I began to understand that I couldn’t really say anything to make anyone love Pittsboro the way Rhi and I do— and I’ve had lots of practice trying to get people to understand and appreciate the unspeakable and innumerable affectations of places I love. But just like Morgantown and Granville before it— like Howard, Ohio, with Frankie’s Pizza and the diviest dive bar in the world, The Derek Inn— Pittsboro is special not because of its many fine establishments, but because it resonates with some ineffable sense of “home-ness.” And it’s hard because I don’t really know what I mean by that, which maybe I should have mentioned at the start of this meandering note. But what is there to say? What makes home feel like home? The truth is, bending to romance, the sky feels different— feels different— in alien places. The crickets sound different. But at home, the breeze floats through the open windows just so, or, the exact same way in central Ohio in the ‘90s as in Morgantown later, and as in Pittsboro, now.

I guess what I’m saying is that for a long time—too long—I was looking north the way one might fawn over certain old photos: reminded of loss. I found myself saying the phrase “back home,” far too often, never meaning anywhere near where I was. Now though, in Pittsboro, with its record shop/used book store, its great brew pub, its co-op grocery—but more importantly its sky, its crickets, its breezes—I’ve found a place that inspires me to stop looking at where I was, stop dreaming of where I might go, and allows me to simply feel, of course, at home. And that, for maybe a long while, is where I am.

*John wanted me to put a disclaimer saying he does not mean to be rude to all people who like Nascar, some people that like Nascar are really rather nice people!  

kentucky.

Today we're going back to my (Rhianna) hometown in Kentucky. I haven't been back there since Christmas and this is the longest stretch I've ever gone being away from Kentucky, 8 months and some change.  Feels a little weird in a way.  I think for anyone, you expect the place you've left to stay exactly as it was when you left and are always surprised to see that life has moved on and stores have opened and people have grown and all that jazz in your absence.  Does this make sense?  What a strange feeling it is.  But I'm excited to see my parents and my friends and visit the pub that I so often frequented and eat Mexican food and hang out with Stella.   

I used to live on this street, in an old house on the right at the top of that hill.
It's where John & I started our relationship!

image via

let's try italian.

John and I were driving around trying to find a place to eat last night.  We were celebrating something so we wanted to try something new.  Our first choice option was closed... so I told him we should try this Italian place we hadn't been to yet.  It's tucked away in a small part of town we never drive by so we always forget it's there.  We went in and we had an amazing dining experience.  The lady who owns the little restaurant is also the chef, everything is made from scratch daily with fresh, local ingrediants.  Sounded pretty good -- we put in our order right away.  We LOVED the pizza and the broccoli parmesan that we got -- the noodles in the broccoli dish were the best I've had... so good!  But this place gets better... we kept noticing people had little plastic cups with wine but didn't see any alcohol on the menu so we asked about it (our waitress was new and didn't know we were new too!) and turns out, the wine is complimentary.  You just serve yourself and leave a tip if you'd like!  Um, what?!  It was so good.  So we cheersed to free wine and to other good things happening in our life and then topped it off by sharing a ricotta & nutella calzone.  We died right then and there from good food and wine and happiness.  We found a new favorite place in our town... can't wait to take visitors there!

Sarah in Matchbook Mag!!!

Sarah's Postcard in Matchbook!

Holy smokes!  Matchbook Mag Issue 2 features a postcard from my hometown written by a lovely girl that I've known for quite awhile!  It's so weird that the place where I grew up is in one of my favorite online mags -- and what's even more weird is that I know the author.  Sarah, two years younger than me, and I ran around in the same social circle in high school and have kept in touch through social networking after.  I really got to know her one summer when we worked at Richmond's country club concession stand by the pool -- we affectionately called our work place the Arlington Snack Shack -- Sarah, our friend Megan, and I were hated by our boss because we chit chatted about fanciful things through our shifts and made up games and drinks.  Another memory I have of Sarah involves us & Megan (again!) going to a Blood Brothers show --- ha!  Anyone remember The Blood Brothers?  Anyone?  Anyone?  Bueller? 

Anyway - Sarah is one of the most motivated people I know.  She's always doing crazy things and getting hyper involved in the most amazing organizations.  Homegirl was even Deputy Chief of Staff for our governor - she's not even mid-twenties yet!  Find all her great accomplishments HERE at her website.  She also has my favorite blog out in the blogosphere - Tickety Boo -- she's freakin stylish to boot!