Homesick

When fall rolls around, I always find myself lonely for Western Kentucky. Nick feels the same about his home in the mountains of North Carolina. Although Nick and the kids and I have lived here on and off for 27 years, Los Angeles never quite feels like home. We have a wonderful life here with a tight-knit community of friends, but back home in Kentucky, the leaves are changing to rust and gold, sweaters are coming out of storage, my mom and sisters are enjoying chilly, clear fall weather, they are driving up to Huber’s Orchards to pick apples and drink cider. I miss the food, the trees, the air, cows, thunderstorms, the friendly Southern people with their friendly Southern accents. 

In Los Angeles, we’re in our seventh month of the Covid shutdown (which looks like it may never end in California) and Nick and I are fantasizing about selling our rental property next door and buying a second home back East, somewhere near both of our families. We dream of spending six months in each place, and even started looking at homes in Nashville.

When we invite Nick’s younger sister, Mitzi out to attend to the big screening of his documentary, she leaves the 65 degree weather in Raleigh just in time for another Southern California heat wave. The only activities available to us are eating, drinking, shopping, floating in the pool and watching bad television. She announces that she also has some business to discuss with us, so the second night of her visit, we sit down at the dinner table with pitchers of skinny margaritas to hear her proposal.

“Listen, ya’ll, Mom and Dad want to get out from under their property in Sylva and I think we should just let them deed it over to us. Y’all can have it six months a year and I’ll take the other six. We can pay the taxes and handle the upkeep and they can live in Siler City closer to me.”

“Do you think your Mom really wants to move out of that house?” I ask.

“Yes! I know she does! She doesn’t want to live there, but she doesn’t want to give it away in the real estate market either. She keeps saying, ‘I don’t know why Nick and Leslie are talking about buying a house when they can have this one for free!’

“But don’t they need to come back every month for your Dad’s accounting business?”

“If they want to come back for a week out of the month, they can just put them a double-wide on the three acres over there,” she gestures to her right. “I have a feeling they will spend less and less time there if they don’t have to take care of the property.”

We discuss the ins and outs of the idea while I mix another pitcher of margaritas. It feels surreal that it’s time to start looking after our parents.

“Personally, I would love to spend time in Sylva,” Nick says, starting to get excited, looking a little starry-eyed. “But you know, it was my home. How do you feel about it Leslie?”

“I’ve always loved the Sylva house,” I say, getting a little bit excited myself. “I could see spending six months out of the year there.”

“Yeah, we could go in January,” says Nick.

“January? No. We live in Southern California. We’ll want to be here in January where it will be 66 degrees. We’d want to be in North Carolina in Spring and Fall,” I say.

“We should go for July, August and September,” Nick says.

“What? No, it’s hot and buggy then,” I say.

“Yeah,” Mitzi says. “That’s Dog Peter Gnat season.” 

“What are Dog Peter Gnats?” I ask, sputtering and wiping tequila off my face.

“Those gnats that fly around dog peters and then fly around your mouth,” she says, surprised I don’t know.

“Eww, gross! That’s not a thing,” I say.

“Yes, it is,” Mitzi says, emphatically. “It’s a gnat that hangs around dog peters and then your face.”

“That’s right,” Nick says. “I know exactly what she’s talking about.”

“That’s just a plain gnat, you guys. The Dog Peter Gnat cannot be a thing,” I say.

“Yes it is,” Mitzi says, leaning in and opening her eyes wide. “Ask me to use it in a sentence.”

“Okay, use it in a sentence,” Nick says.

“I was up there shovelling shit off the tin roof and the Dog Peter gnats about killed me! See?”

When I can finally talk through my laughter, I say, “Well, we don’t have Dog Peter gnats in Kentucky.”

“I’m sure you do,” Mitzi says.

“I’m calling Heather,” I say, taking my phone over to the sofa. When my youngest sister answers my Facetime call, she is smoking her last cigarette before bed. “Hey, Heather. I’m here with Nick and Mitzi,” I hold up the phone and Mitzi plops down on the other end of the couch and says hey.

“What are y’all crazy kids doing tonight?” Heather asks.

“Mitzi’s trying to tell me we have Dog Peter Gnats in Kentucky.”

“Dog Peter Gnats?” Heather asks, laughing, holding her cigarette up near her face. “You mean those gnats that fly around dog peters and then fly around your head?”

“Oh my god, you guys are crazy!” I yell at them both. Heather says we should Google it and Mitzi finds an actual song with the lyrics, “Dog Peter Gnats, flying around the edge of my beard, the Dog Peter Gnats, they’re really bad this year.” 

We finish off the dregs of our pitcher of skinny margaritas and eat the ice cream sandwiches from the freezer, swearing to go on a diet tomorrow. We watch an episode of The Killer Inside Me: Released and complain that it’s boring. I climb into bed, still chuckling to myself and I celebrate the fact that Mitzi has brought a little bit of home to California. And soon we may be spending time in the mountains of North Carolina, watching Maple leaves change from green to rust to yellow, then later in the year, we’ll sit on the front porch swatting at the Dog Peter Gnats flying around our heads.