I’m told it began in California and from my earliest memory that’s been the case. Happiness blossomed for me in California. I liked everything as a child and I quickly became a pop culture fanatic, devouring everything from the Six-Million-Dollar Man to standing in line for the 1989 premier of Batman. But it was short lived. The opinions of others easily swayed my own beliefs back then, particularly those that said life is cheaper, therefore better, in hot Arizona.
In my early 20s I decided to find out if that was true. It wasn’t. Not better by a long shot.
There were a ton of “ers” to be found, but none of them were particularly appealing. It’s hotter. It’s dustier. It’s colder in the winter. It’s buggier. And (from what I saw, and with the exception of Bookman’s, the Pererine Book Company, and Changing Hands) it’s dumber. California came with memories of my mom and how she stoked the fires of my inner nerd with Spider Man dolls and introduced me to the beauty of the rolling sea. I clung to those memories after she died, while I worked on a road crew in Phoenix, when I learned DOS programming, and when I thought I would succumb to heat exhaustion while surrounded by saguaro cactus. Twenty years later I left the only two good parts of the Grand Canyon State, my children, and returned to the place where I was born.
Today I walk over the memories I cherish, see the same sights every day that I saw through younger eyes, and wish my children were here with me. I came home again.
But I want to take them from theirs so my world will be complete.