Tag Archives: home

Whether You’re Going Away or Going Home Depends More on the Direction of the Wind Than on The Time of Day or What State You’re In

Photograph by Jose Padua
Driving home with
my wife, my daughter, my son
on a Sunday
from the house in
the big city where I grew
up to the house
in the small
town where we live;
thankful to my
mother and father for
the future they
helped make for us
in both city and town;
thankful as the suburbs that
surround the highway
turn to hills and
into mountains
that follow the river;
thankful for the colors
blue, green, and the almost
red that appears in the half dark
near the afternoon’s end;
thankful, above all else
and through hours of confusion
and disconsolation,
for all the days
it took to
get to this.

-Jose Padua

Photograph by Jose Padua

And So the Brightness of Evening

Photograph by Jose Padua
I shine these minutes in the evening,
so heavy with the space of living,
rooms to walk into and leave, floors
to step upon to do a task and walk
away from. The end of the day is
like a polishing of time. You wipe
the table, I listen to its clearing from
the living room then take the plastic
bags of trash out the front door.
It’s a cleaning of the hours, and
for us, an emptying of what’s left
of the week. Work is what keeps
us here, what feeds us from bank
to store to hand to mouth. We keep
it clean, we let it get dirty, we mop,
we scrub, we rinse. Our clothes pile
up in the back of the house no matter
how hard we try to keep up with it.
We don’t try that hard. There are other
things to do, other things to see,
a show about tiny birds flying just
above the roofs; a book about the
end of the world, the stopping of
time, and the sailing of Greek boats.
Before I turn off the ceiling light
in the dining room I see the plates and
tumblers behind the cabinet’s glass
door gleam. It’s the quiet kind
of shining that moves us best,
a glowing with no need to make
its own sound, because upstairs
all the lights are switched on, and
I hear the soft voice of our daughter
getting ready for bed as she sings.

-Jose Padua

Photograph by Jose Padua

In the Valley of the Shadow of Glenn Beck’s Hemorrhoids

For me, life is a series of obsessions. Some I take on only to discard at some point. Others I keep while, like a polygamist of obsessions, I find more—of different shapes and sizes—to add to the group. So, in addition to my actual family, I have, in my mind, a parallel family of obsessions. It was one of these obsessions—my obsession with the name “Front Royal”—that brought us to this town and took us away from the city life that suited us so well for so many years. It was a move that took a lot of effort and, above all, energy. And what gave me the energy to come here and drag Heather and Maggie along was that obsession. For a number of years now—with my days of heavy drinking behind me—alcohol has been replaced by obsession as my primary fuel. Indeed, obsessions aren’t just something I have: for me, obsessions are everything.

Lately, what I’ve been obsessed with is America—the country and the concept. I’ve been writing poem after poem about America, about what I see in it and what I don’t see, what I love about it and what I hate about it. I’m obsessed with its long stretches of highway that take you from city to suburb to country, then on into mountains and desert and, finally, out to the ocean on the other side of the continent. And, I’m obsessed with being on that road—I’d be perfectly happy spending years going from town to town, and hotel to hotel, with Heather and Maggie. I love being on the road and, I must say, I love being on the road even more now since we moved to the valley.

I can’t say that I’ve never had a sad moment on the road, but there’s something about that motion, that sensation that you’re floating over the asphalt like some entity that’s half flesh and blood and half ghost—that helps make the bad things seem, if not insignificant, then at least small enough so that hiding them in the back of your mind is a lot easier. As for those ugly Hummers you see or cars with bumper stickers like “I’ll Keep My Freedom, My Guns, and My Money, and You Can Keep the Change”—well, I can slow down, or speed up so that I stay a comfortable and safe distance from them. A distance that will decrease the chances of me giving in to another of my obsessions: giving people the finger.

Getting away from these things that make me want to stretch my arm, make a tight fist, then extend my middle finger isn’t easy to do when I’m home—home being not my house where I feel fine, but the town I live in. A town which, because I live here, I’m supposed to call home.

That’s another reason why I’m obsessed with being on the road now. When I’m on the road, I’m a tourist: I don’t need to feel at home. Or, at any rate, when I’m on the road, I’m not missing anything if I don’t feel like I belong. Because when I’m home I think, for some strange, fucked up reason, that I’m supposed to feel like I belong there.

I have felt at home before, such as in my old Mt. Pleasant neighborhood in DC—but that was where I grew up. The things that annoyed people who were new to the neighborhood like the drunks peeing in the alley behind the house—shit, even I did that myself sometimes—never bothered me. I also felt at home when I lived in New York City. Home, even when I’d walk in the door of my apartment building on Avenue B to see some junkie shooting up in the foyer in front of the mailboxes. Home, even when the middle-aged couple down the hall would have an argument and yell at each other for half an hour, after which he would finally stomp off and she would sing that old Olivia Newton-John song, “Come On Over.” She’d sing it, in Spanish, while sitting in the hallway all forlorn, her voice getting louder and louder as she cleared the smoker’s phlegm from her lungs. Then she’d pace back and forth, still singing, her voice going even more horribly off key than when she started.

I hated that song when it was sung pitch perfect, by Olivia herself, and I hated it even more after hearing my neighbor sing it. But, despite her horrible voice, and the actual physical pain it caused, I still felt that I was home. And that I belonged there.

After being here in Front Royal for over two years, I still don’t feel that way. I know, I seem to keep saying that over and over, but that’s another one of my obsessions—my obsession with the concept of home and that moment of revelation when, after being in some new place for a little while, you nod and say to yourself Yeah, this is where I belong. It sure as hell hasn’t happened to me yet here in the valley.

Of course it’s hard to get that homey feeling when not a day goes by when I don’t get that look from someone. And I don’t even mean that gawking where-the-fuck-are-you-from stare I get from time to time from people to whom I seem like a lizard being who just fell to earth from another planet. I mean that quick look that takes an extra split second more than just a casual glance. It’s that glance I get from people who all of sudden seem to think they’ve got a job with Homeland Security and are excited that, with me, they may have just spotted one of those evil-doing invaders—or some illegal alien who’s going to take his job away from him and move next door and spoil the complexion of his neighborhood.

Then there are those looks that aren’t quite as long, but still last longer than they should. Sometimes it’s a person behind the counter of some business here—a person who will look at me and, believing that I’m some kind of outsider who doesn’t belong here (or maybe anywhere else in America), never look at me in the eye again throughout the entire transaction. Usually that person will ask me for my ID, even though he or she hasn’t bothered asking for the ID of the people in line before me who used a bank card to pay. But the thing they don’t realize when they ask for my ID is that, after they look at my ID, they have to look at me again to see if there’s a match. And, if their intent is just to avoid looking at me—to avoid seeing invaders like me—then they’ve lost. So when they look up from my ID and back at me is when I give them my scary make-them-pee-in-their-pants face. It is, in certain ways, more effective than saying “Go fuck yourself”—except that I never know for sure if I’ve made someone pee in his or her pants, whereas when I say “Go fuck yourself” I get that warm and fuzzy but palpable feeling that goes along with that phrase.

When they’re not afraid or suspicious of me, then they want to laugh or belittle me—or, at any rate, make me something so far removed from reality that I can’t possibly pose a threat anymore. Recently, during a ghost tour of downtown Front Royal, one of the tour guides told me that I reminded him of the mystical amulet seller in The Golden Child, an Eddie Murphy vehicle from more than twenty years ago. I wasn’t that offended—my first unspoken reaction being Of all the movies of the last twenty years , you remember that fucking movie?—but again, I was being singled out as the other, the alien, the exotic being.

Still, I would have to say that reminding him of the amulet seller was better than reminding him, for example, of Mickey Rooney’s idiotic bucktoothed portrayal of Mr. Yunioshi in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Or Gedde Watanabe’s portrayal of the clueless, just-off-the-boat Long Duk Dong in Sixteen Candles. (Looking back on that role years later, Watanabe admitted that he was a bit naïve in gleefully presenting this offensively stereotypical character.) And, if the tour guide had said I reminded him not of the amulet seller, but of the actor who played that role, Victor Wong, that would have been a different thing altogether.

Before he started acting, Victor Wong was a painter, a poet, a photographer, a journalist. He’d studied painting under Mark Rothko, was portrayed as “Arthur Ma” in Jack Kerouac’s novel Big Sur, was a part of Ken Kesey’s Merry Pranksters crowd, and was even a TV reporter. Far from being some exotic other, Victor Wong was an American. Born in San Francisco in 1927, he died in 2001, the day after attacks on September 11th.

For some people, though, that’s not enough to give him consideration as a real American—after all, his last name was Wong. As Glenn Beck recently commented about Barack Obama, “You don’t take the name Barack to identify with America.” For Beck and other like-minded goons, American names have a European, preferably Anglo-Saxon origin. Obviously, with my name being Jose Padua, I could never be a real American, at least not in Beck’s world.

Which brings me to another obsession—my obsession with how there’s no difference between what comes out of Glenn Beck’s mouth and the gas that escapes to the free world through his hemorrhoid-besieged anus. (“I had surgery on my ass,” Beck explained while talking about the procedure performed on his hemorrhoids during his old show on Headline News back in 2008.) I think about Glenn Beck’s ass a lot—even more than I think about the hate-filled drivel he tries to pass off as social commentary.

You know how they say that when you’re speaking in front of a crowd of people, it helps calm your nerves if you imagine that the entire audience is naked? Well, back in 2008 I did the first full poetry reading I’d done in years. I felt rusty and I was, I must day, a little nervous. But as soon as I got up before that crowd of people at the bookstore in Winchester, I started thinking about Glenn Beck and his hemorrhoids and how difficult it must have been for him sometimes to sit and do a show when his ass was in so much pain. Then I began to read a poem—the first poem I’d read in public in a long time—and when I was done I looked up at the audience to see them looking at me and applauding, waiting on my next words.

Sometimes my obsessions make it hard for me. Sometimes, they get things done.

And what it always comes back to is this: my obsessions clash with theirs. Their obsessions include guns, god, taxes, illegal immigrants—a set of obsessions that goes along with a vision of America as homogenous Homeland. My great obsession is that I’m an American, too, but here, in the valley, I don’t really feel like it—and I worry that as the years go by this valley isn’t shrinking but expanding.

-Jose Padua

Home

HomeHome. For me that’s been a house, an apartment, maybe even a neighborhood, and, at certain points in my life, a bar. But it has never been a term I associate with any monolithic ideal of a country, especially not the United States, even though I’ve lived here all my life. I’m not one to go around waving the flag screaming “USA! USA!—I actually find that sort of behavior rather scary. This observation angers a lot of people and usually elicits a response like, “Well, then, if you don’t feel at home here, why don’t you go back to your own damn country?”

It’s similar to the reaction you’ll often get if you tell someone you don’t believe in God. I actually do believe in some sort of God, but not the one that requires that you bow down before him and praise him (and this God is, invariably, always a he). But when someone automatically assumes that I share his or her vision of God, I’ll more often than not say something shocking to get that person to change the subject or, better yet, leave me alone.

The difference is that although you can conceal what you believe or don’t believe, if someone thinks you look like you’re from another country, there’s nothing you can do to conceal this. I remember riding a Greyhound bus through the southwestern United States in the 80s. Every now and then state troopers would hop on  at rest stops, right before we thought we’d be moving on again. The troopers would go down the aisle of the bus, looking at the passengers. When they got to me, they’d have questions, such as, “Do you have your passport?” or “Do you have your papers?” One time, a trooper even asked me if I had my birth certificate.

“No, I don’t have my birth certificate,” I answered. “I’m a citizen. I have a driver’s license if you want to see it.”

After I offered my driver’s license, the trooper would then move down the aisle to see if there was anyone else who looked like an illegal alien.

Sometimes I’m able to laugh, as when the parents of the bride at a wedding I attended asked (when I introduced myself to them in English, the only language I speak) what language I was speaking (they’d had a few drinks). Then, there was another time at Chief Ike’s Mambo Room in Washington, DC, when a drunken woman demanded I tell her what country I’m from.

“I’m from here,” I told her.

She then started to speak more loudly, and more slowly, as if that would make me understand her question, “I. SAID. WHERE. ARE. YOU. FROM?”

That’s when I usually walk away from a conversation that’s obviously going nowhere.

I don’t get the question about my origin much, here in Front Royal. What I do get is that look, as one time when I went into the South Street Diner with Heather and Maggie and a middle aged woman suddenly lifted her head up when I entered and gawked. Then there was that time Heather and I took a break during the day and ate at L-Dee’s on Main Street and a man sitting across from us practically stared at me the entire time. Leaving the diner, we saw a car with a bumper sticker saying “If You Can Read This Thank A Teacher. If You Can Read This In English Thank A Soldier!”

I think the odds were at least even that that car belonged to the guy who stared at me.

This past week, though, when I picked Maggie up from her summer camp, one of her friends asked me, “Are you from China?” I wasn’t quite sure how she felt about my looking like I’m from somewhere else.

“Well,” I answered, “I was born here. But my parents are from the Philippines.”

“The Philippines?” she said. “Wow! That’s awesome!”

It’s not often that I get such an enthusiastic response regarding my heritage. And when I was her age I wasn’t enthusiastic about it either. I wanted to be an American, a real American, and it took me years to realize that I already was a real American, despite what some people may think. Because my America includes people who can trace their heritage to South America, Africa, and Asia, not just Europe. It also includes people who just stepped off a plane as recently as yesterday. And people who somehow walked, or swam here.

Which isn’t to say that I don’t still feel like a visitor here much of the time, like someone who was passing through but whose car broke down on Main Street.

Main Street—it’s not where I wanted to be stranded, but then I couldn’t afford to be stranded on Park Avenue in New York or even M Street in DC. Now, Main Street is where I go whenever I feel like stepping out of the house for a walk. No more leisurely strolls up Broadway toward Times Square for me, no promenading across the Duke Ellington Bridge over Rock Creek Park. It’s Main Street for me, where I sit at one of the iron tables outside the Daily Grind on nice days, sipping my coffee.

The last time I sat there I had a song going through my head. It didn’t seem like the right place for me to think about this song, but there I was, hearing Rahsaan Roland Kirk doing his version of “Goodbye Porkpie Hat”:

He put all of his soul
into a tenor saxophone
He had his way of talking,
’twas a language all his own

Life’s story – Love and Glory
If you listen
While he plays it for you
now listen
and listen
and dig it

Can’t you dig it?
Lester Young is playing
what he’s feeling
Dealing and dancing on home.

But was he really saying “home” at the end? I was never quite sure about that last line, whether he actually sang the word “home” or had just stopped the words and began to hum, like someone on a long, long walk who has to do something to pass the time until he gets wherever he’s going.

-Jose Padua

Driving with My Daughter

Driving3Music was the first line of defense for me in battling the strangeness I felt when we moved here. Our new house here was no problem (I actually felt at home in it much more quickly than at the house we had in a neighborhood called Hollin Hall in Alexandria, near Mt. Vernon). It was when I stepped out of the house that was the problem—this feeling I had that I was lost inside this dream that was so strange I didn’t know if I should laugh or run away in fear.

Before moving here, I’d lived only in big cities like Washington, DC and New York, where there’s a diverse population. Being an Asian-American, I tend to stand out here in Warren County. Disappearing into the crowd, such as it is here, is not an option for me.

One might consider it an exaggeration to say that whenever I leave our house here that I leave prepared to do battle. I know it doesn’t compare to when a soldier steps into the middle of some kill or be-killed situation. And, most of the time, things are fine. But I feel I always have to be ready for that moment when, with my status as a human being called into question, I have to be ready for battle.

I don’t drink the way I used to—and besides, I was never one to mix that with driving. But I needed something to keep me focused on the task at hand whenever I left the house: driving to the Martin’s for groceries, to the Lowe’s for house supplies, and most importantly, taking our daughter Maggie to and from school. I needed something to keep me strong, fearless, and alert, and the one thing I knew would work for sure was Parliament Funkadelic. P-Funk.

Whenever I took Maggie to or from school, to the doctor—or anywhere else I took her while Heather did the day job back in DC—I played P-Funk’s Funkentelechy vs. the Placebo Syndrome:

On guard!
Defend yourself!
We shall overcome
Where did you get that funk from?

Soon, I added One Nation Under a Groove, Hardcore Jollies, and Maggot Brain to the P-Funk playlist. It seemed to work, and I felt, somehow, at home riding around the streets of Front Royal. And although Maggie may not have needed this music the way I did, she, at the very least, seemed to want it. “Always play P-Funk,” she advised me whenever we went for a drive. She was, at the time, just a little over four years old.

After a while, though, it was time to move on to other music, so I began playing Sun Ra during our drives through town. I played a wide range of his music, from his early—and more conventional—albums like Jazz in Silhouette to his wilder avant garde sessions like The Magic City. I was surprised that Maggie usually wanted me to play Sun Ra’s “weirder stuff.”

As we went along, the music kept changing. When I first played one of the discs from The Magnetic Fields’ 69 Love Songs, Maggie was hooked. This was also the music that first moved her to try to sing along, as on a drive to Shepherdstown, West Virginia, when she sang,

You can’t use a bulldozer
To study orchids, he said
We don’t know anything
You don’t know anything
I don’t know anything about love

Among the other music I’ve played for Maggie in the car since we moved here are The Art Ensemble of Chicago’s Les Stances a Sophie, Miles Davis’s A Tribute to Jack Johnson, The Go-Betweens’ 16 Lovers Lane, plus miscellaneous songs by King Sunny Ade, Pizzicato Five, and Serge Gainsbourg.

Then, this past summer, her favorite songs were from a mix-CD I made for our trip to the beach, and when we got back to town, that was still all she wanted to hear for the next three weeks. So I played songs like LCD Soundsystem’s “North American Scum” and The Smiths’ “Sheila Take a Bow” over and over again as Maggie sang along:

Sheila take a
Sheila take a bow
Boot the grime of this world
In the crotch dear.

Of course, as one friend pointed out, she has no idea what she is singing about. But then, she always asks questions. And although I know she can’t fully understand the explanations Heather or I try to give her, she gets a start, an inkling, an idea—and perhaps even a certain well of strength from which she may draw when the need arises.

And that’s what I try to give her in the music I play while we’re driving. Maybe, somehow, it can help her deal with those unpleasant situations we’ll find ourselves in from time to time, like last week when, after picking her up from her summer arts camp, I took her to the new ice cream shop that had opened up downtown.

As soon as we walked in, I felt it—that tension in the air and the feeling that silence has suddenly swallowed up whatever conversation had been taking place in the room. When the young woman behind the counter looked at us it wasn’t a look that said she was just tired, mean, all business, or just had an attitude. I’d seen plenty of attitude, plenty of tired, cranky people on the other side of the counter when I lived in New York. This was a different look, a look I’d come to recognize and differentiate from simple attitude.

It’s a way of looking at someone without seeing him, without recognizing him. It’s a way of saying, ultimately, “you’re not one of us.” Sometimes it’s said politely, with perhaps a touch of genuine curiosity, as a couple of weekends ago when a man waiting in line at the McDonald’s on South Street asked my older brother Tony, who was here with the rest of my family for a visit from DC, “I don’t mean to be rude, but what country are you from?”

At the ice cream shop the young woman behind the counter and her co-worker, who was sitting at one of the tables, expressed no such curiosity. To them, it didn’t much matter where I was from. She simply asked, with a blank expression on her face and in a voice that was barely audible, for my order. When she gave us our ice cream and I said “thank you” she said nothing, and turned, as if she couldn’t wait to get away from me and my daughter.

Walking out the door I told Maggie we wouldn’t be going back to this ice cream shop again—it just wasn’t worth it. Besides, there were plenty of other places in town where the people were fine. I tried to say it calmly. But, knowing right away that I was angry about something, she started crying.

I held her hand and we walked back to the mini-van. Maggie stepped inside and buckled her seat belt. When I turned on the ignition, the music came on automatically, but softly. As we drove back to the house, I turned the volume up, hoping that what she remembers most from this day is the music, and not this place.

-Jose Padua

Heart of Glass

HeartOfGlassI sat on our front porch, waiting for Heather to come home, while Maggie sat inside watching a particular episode of The Suite Life of Zack and Cody for perhaps the 10th time. Maggie doesn’t let me make suggestions for things to watch on television anymore—not after she noticed the DVD of Werner Herzog’s Heart of Glass on the table and asked what it was.

“Well, you want to watch it?” I asked. “It’s about this town where the people have all gone mad. And also, the whole cast, except for one person, is hypnotized!”

Maggie was intrigued, so I put it on. She actually made it a third of the way through before falling asleep (I, on the other hand, had seen it five or six times, and not once had I fallen asleep while watching it). Now, if you ask Maggie what’s the worst movie she’s ever seen, she always says, “Heart of Glass.”

“It’s so boring,” she explains. “And everyone’s hypnotized,” she adds, as the detail that once intrigued her is now the most horrible thing about it.

So I stepped outside with my early evening cup of coffee, not being in the mood to watch the scene where Maddie Fitzpatrick (Ashley Tisdale) takes in the suddenly penniless London Tipton (Brenda Song). Sometimes I bring a magazine to read when I sit on the porch, but other times all I need to do to entertain myself here is to watch the people going by.

I was on the porch for about five minutes when a young woman driving a beat up old boat of a car held out her middle finger as she drove by our house. I wondered what it was that offended her. Was it the Obama sign that we never took down after the election? Was that what pissed her off? Perhaps I had gained the ability to piss someone off just by sitting on my front porch. Or, I wondered, had the town suddenly gone mad, like in Heart of Glass?

But walking into view from the left was one of those young shirtless guys with the bad tattoos. As the car moved ahead he turned around and looked back at the woman in the car, then raised his own middle finger to salute her in return.

“Fuck you,” he muttered in disgust. “Fuckin’ bitch.”

I was embarrassed, having assumed that that middle finger was meant for me when it was meant for someone else. I was disappointed, too. I tried to catch the shirtless guy’s eye so that I might share in his sense of disgust, but he kept moving on. I guess he had shit to do. And probably other women to piss off.

-Jose Padua
—————————————-
Photo: Josef Bierbichler in Werner Herzog’s Heart of Glass.

Jonesin’ for Blueberry Sno-Cones: The God’s Unvarnished Truth

Jonesin2You know how sometimes, if you aren’t trying, you can have a nearly perfect day? This past Saturday in Front Royal came pretty close to perfect, which surprises me even as I write this on a Monday morning at 6 am surrounded by high-rise office buildings in Rosslyn.

That morning, my daughter Maggie and I rose early, around 7:30 am, leaving Daddy to sleep in since he’s a notorious night owl. After Maggie scarfed down her egg, ham, and cheese sandwich left over from our visit to The Daily Grind two nights before and I finished a bowl of the obligatory shredded wheat cereal, we went for a power walk around town.

I call it a power walk, but with a 6 year-old in tow, it was more like a stroll. Every few feet Maggie saw something on the ground she wanted to look at. Eventually, we made our way down to Main Street and past the empty storefront being used to display local artwork. The sun shone brightly on the massive baskets of pink and purple petunias hanging from the light poles near the visitor’s center. The slightly humid air had warmed up quickly.

We marched past the secondhand store run by the women’s shelter, the bank/arts council, the coffee shop, the fabric store, the computer shop, the Catholic store, the Lucky Star Lounge, the furniture store, and the movie theatre, before Maggie whined that the snazzy black boots I told her not to wear were hurting her feet. I suggested that we cut our walk short and head over the new farmer’s market behind the gazebo—so much for Mommy’s kick-ass workout.

Front Royal had been lacking a farmer’s market for years, which was odd because there are lots of farms in and around town. Ironically, an old neighbor of ours from Alexandria now runs a farmer’s market in Strasburg. But Strasburg is twenty minutes away—too far for a quick trip to pick up veggies.

Lots of folks here were thrilled to hear that a local market would be starting up, selling produce and other goods on Thursday nights and Saturday mornings. Jose and I had wanted to check it out for weeks but were just too busy. Finally, last Thursday, we made it over.

Under one of about 12 small white tents, we chatted with the market’s manager and his wife who we’d met some months before when the wife ran up to me at the grocery store and introduced herself. She’d seen Jose and I read poems at The Daily Grind. Like us, they’d moved to Warren County from the northern VA suburbs.

That night at the market, Maggie played with one her classmates between the tents while we bought some Swiss chard, tomatoes, zucchini, and squash. I vowed to actually cook the stuff, not just feel virtuous about buying it, which is usually as far as I get in my quest to be an organic, locavore mommy.

As Maggie and I entered the farmer’s market again on Saturday morning, she headed straight for the sno-cone table. She had discovered on our earlier trip that the blueberry sno-cones, made with real fruit syrup, were strangely more tasty than the variety enhanced by blue dye #2.

Just as on Thursday night, a man and woman sitting off to the side played guitar and sang some folksy farmer’s market shopping music. About five minutes after Maggie started in on her sno-cone, a lady selling herbs and homemade scones scurried over with a paper towel to mop up the sticky mess decorating her face and shirt. I thanked her profusely.

The whole scene had that easy Saturday morning kind of feeling, as if no one there could possibly have a care in the world (except maybe for the frowning, bleary-eyed woman smoking a cigarette by the visitor’s center).

In the end, I bought three peach muffins from a woman who grinds her own flour and then window-shopped the offerings at the other tents—scented oils and bath salts, candles, soaps, honey, fruits and vegetables, meats, organic pizzas, and hand-embroidered towels and aprons. Those aprons were the only product that scared me a little since many of them depicted curly crosses and avenging angels.

The rest of our day flew by. After Maggie and I got home, I threw her in the tub for a quick bath, then we hung out at a birthday party in the wilderness near Skyline Drive, read some poems to teens at the library, ran to the Hair Cuttery to get Maggie’s hair chopped into a sassy bob/shag kind of thing (which she requested out of the blue), ate dinner at home (including the recently purchased Swiss chard), and finally headed off to a movie—I couldn’t wait to sit down and relax, though Jose feared he might fall asleep.

Despite the fact that we can walk to the theater, we drove down and parked half a block from Front Royal’s only movie house, the Royal Cinemas. Built in 1920, it shows three first-run movies at a time in one large and two small screening rooms. Sometimes we catch a film mid-week when almost no one else is there—it’s like having your own home theater.

I was eager to see this particular film since I had just finished reading the book (Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince). Maggie was excited too since she had seen all of the previous Harry Potter movies. Halfway through though, exhausted from our long day, she asked to go home. I held her on my lap as the sad story reached its peak and wound down. I tried not to ball my eyes out at the ending—I’m a sucker for young adult fantasy. I was tired also and looking forward to a soft, if unmade, bed and a sound eight-hour sleep.

Main Street felt almost city-like as we stepped out onto the sidewalk in the bright lights of the marquee. We walked to our car past the Lucky Star Lounge where local bands play just about every night of the week. We used to take Maggie there with us for a late night snack once in a while but kids are no longer allowed in after 9 PM—this is annoying but we’ll just have to get a babysitter next time—it’s about the only night life Front Royal has to offer.

We clambered into the van and drove home around the block, Maggie falling asleep in her seat. The day had been busy but good. As we dragged Maggie into the house and up to bed, I wondered if she would dream of Harry Potter, of his dark blue eyes and bookish glasses. Maybe she’d spend the night sharing an organic blueberry sno-cone with him at a quiet little farmer’s market just down the block.

-Heather Davis