And so ends my brief sojourn to Southern California, as I sit in a Denny's outside of Los Angeles Airport. I cam here to see someone home, so to speak, as my friend buried her father. Godspeed, Ephrom McCurley - the people I met in helping with the services and at the reception after the funeral are a testament to your legacy.
I am, of course, anxious to get home to East Tennessee. My home was So Cal, and some pockets of "home" remain. I realized as I slept nights at the home of my friends, Terry and Eddie Lowenstein, and Mariana and Tracy Cockrell, that the security I felt in their houses was a sense of "being home." Same with the house and - oddly enough - the hair salon of my friend, Trish Schack (within the next 6 months, look for a studio shoot she and I are planning to promote her business). Events of earlier this year left me with a feeling of excommunication from my long-time parish, St. Joseph, in Santa Ana - those feelings were extinguished when its new administrator and my friend, Fr. Ed Becker, saw me at the funeral and hugged me, saying, "Welcome home . . . you will always have a home here at this church."
But real home is where the hearth is. I want to see my house up on Dog Hill, and kiss my husband and hug my son. And the pack . . . of the four, my Schnauzer, Dante, will remain glued to my side, determined not to let Mommy out of his sight for fear she will leave again.
Lord, let Dolly Girl and I have a safe journey.