Leaving

Me, when I was a boy in the 80s. That hair. It's either a helmet or a Q-tip.

Hi, my name is Joshua. I don't think we've officially met. I write this blog. 

I want to back up a little bit. All the way back. I was born in Hot Springs, S.D., in September of 1977, the third and final boy to Baby Boomer parents. My dad was an entrepreneurially-minded Vietnam veteran and my mother was a homemaker who also had a more-than-full-time job. As if minding three boys wasn't enough. My dad is a classic first-born, my mom a second-(and last-) born. 

I'm the dinky one.

Growing up in the 80s in a small town in South Dakota was pretty carefree. I've talked about my childhood years quite a bit here, so we know those years weren't perfect. There were a lot of good things to be thankful for, though. 

I don't know much about the rest of the state, but I do know quite a bit about the Black Hills. It's been called "the land of infinite variety." It's the sort of place you scrape your windshield in the morning and squeegee the bugs off in the afternoon. Every mile you travel contains a unique microclimate. I can watch the outside temperature fluctuate wildly as I make my 45-minute commute every morning. Over every hill and beyond every holler is something unexpected, maybe a mine shaft, maybe a creature you've never seen before. This morning on my drive to the store I had to stop for a bighorn sheep crossing the road. I saw a fox cross my path a few days earlier. We have deer, of course, turkey, elk, mountain lions, bobcats, and even occasionally bears and moose wandering through. Like those bears, though, I had to make my home somewhere else.

When we moved to another state (I was 10 years old), my heart broke. I was in love with where I lived, and I knew there was no other place like it. The Black Hills was my home. I roamed freely. When I imagined my future, I thought I would be (perhaps because it was suggested to me) a conservation officer because I loved the flora and fauna of the region so much. Then I learned there was already a conservation officer, so that was probably out. Most likely he didn't want a kid to take his job and would fight me for it. 

Imagine the weird kids from the Netflix series Stranger Things living in South Dakota, and that was kind of like my life. There weren't any MK Ultra girls in the town I lived in (I don't think), but the rest is pretty familiar to me. I rode my bike everywhere, was independent, and untethered. My parents knew I was safe, but they had no idea where I was much of the time. I found my spirit animal running free with a dog named Charlie in the ponderosa forests near my home. There's a story there, maybe for another time.

I still have that tackle box/toolbox.

When I found out we were moving, it was suggested I stay with my friend Matt for the week before we left. I did, and when I came home, the house was packed up. I sat with my tropical fish in the backseat of the car on the wintry drive to Nebraska. I was heartbroken for months after we moved. The greatest love of my life — the Black Hills — was taken from me. This became a theme in my life, the loss of things near and dear. My next door neighbor Geoff befriended me, as we were in the same grade. He took me under his wing in school and outside of school. He was the loudest to yell my name the first Optimist football practice when I had to run to test my speed for the coach. I was behind in all my classes, but being friends with one of the smartest kids in my class helped me feel more comfortable. I'll never forget his kindness toward me. 

Eventually, I came to love my new home. I found many things to do there I never would have done anywhere else. I also began a love affair with the landscape of the Sandhills that endures today. There is something truly special about that part of the Midwest. I met many people I still think the world of in Nebraska. I thank God for my nine years there. Who knows? Maybe I'll go back someday for a visit. Or maybe I'll exchange my Black Hills for the Sandhills again. Or maybe I'll try permanent boosterism in Lincoln. I hear they have a football coach again. 

Wherever I end up, it will never have the dewy feeling of the Black Hills when I was a boy. I loved clambering over rocks and stumps and fallen trees. I loved climbing sappy pine trees, blowing up ant hills with Black Cats, discovering weird bugs under rocks, watching things I'd planted growing fiercely. I loved the smell of the ponderosas as they warmed in the sun, the steam rising off Fall River in the winter, the sounds of the chickadees and nuthatches (even though I didn't know their names), and the hours I spent just being a boy. For all intents and purposes, when we moved, my childhood ended. 

There are just too many things I could say about this.

It could be my nascent boyhood snuffed out too soon that captivated my mind. Or it could be the specialness of the place. God knows it's been fought over hundreds of times. There must be something special about it. Whatever it was that captivated me has now turned on me. It's thrusting me out and away. It's violently heaving me away. Vomiting me out. There have been times when I've left the Hills and upon my return, I feel a deep heaviness, a darkness descending on me. Even the sight of them in the distance sends dread through my soul. There is something palpable here. And it's not very friendly. 

Do you know what it reminds me of? It reminds me of my divorce. In fact, I don't think I could have picked a better backdrop for a divorce. The feeling is the same! Here I am, trying to make something work that just refuses to work. My heart says "I must," but I'm surrounded by even louder shouts of "NO, I MUST." I've been drowned out by the voice of this place, and by the duplicitous heart of my former lover. When you use all the strength you have to make something work and it still stays broken, either you're going about it all wrong or it just wasn't meant to be. Sadly, I believe the latter is true for both. 

I think I actually hit the ball. But I was out at first.

So, as I left my ex-wife, so I must leave this place — begrudgingly, painfully, and a broken man. There is something here I love. I've called it home twice now, which is more than I ever deserved. Yet, there is a bitterness here and an unrepentant noise I can always hear. What I've come to realize is that relationships should satisfy all parties. If it's a marriage, then both man and woman (or whatever combination) should be satisfied by their union. If you have a relationship with a place, the same rule applies. Sadly, I lost both my partner and my home in the last few years. And I realized my childhood was locked away forever in a time and place I can never find again. There's something liberating in losing something. I'm not sure if liberating is a good word when you feel you've lost everything, though. 

This is a goodbye. Sometimes what we love doesn't love us back.