Expat Blog Challenge-Day Two: "All who wander are not lost" --JRR Tolkien

Inner voice:  Blog writing is not novel writing....blog writing is not novel writing....

Okay.  Day One down.  Late, but down.  Day Two......

My first impressions to this linger around the many conversations I that trend from summertime and travels back home.  "Ohhhh...you're in Bangladesh now?  Wow (slightly uncomfortable pause).....why?"  Yes.  Why, indeed.

Well, as this is a blog entry intended for the "Expat Blog Challenge" I feel I'm preaching to the choir a bit on this one, so I'll spare you the laundry list of reasons why living Stateside, for me, "just don't suit" (to quote Melanie Smooter's Mama from Sweet Home Alabama).  Instead, I'll attribute my wanderlust habits to my grandparents--and the house where I spent my summers in the small town of Bartow, Georgia.  

Strangely enough, I'm not sure how far outside of the South my grandparents truly "wandered."  I know my grandfather was in WW2, and was stationed at some point in Asia, but he never seemed to enjoy his travels much and he wasn't inclined to talk about his globetrotting with the US Navy, so I can't really attribute my gypsy-tendencies to that (Sideline Note to Self:  Interview family about grandaddy's Navy experiences).  As far as I know, my grandmother's "longest voyage" was a sojourn to the West Coast in an RV with my older brother and Aunt Susie and Uncle Buck (I hear you....yes, I had an Uncle Buck...but he was oddly similar to John Candy in his affinity for dirty jokes and his driving a gigantic, ugly car).  Any reference to "road-tripping" cross-country with my Aunt Susie and Uncle Buck sounds more to me like medieval water-torture than a chosen-lifestyle, so that, most definitely wasn't the catalyst for my globe-trotting.  

In reality, a major contributing factor to my early thirst for exploration was my grandparents borderline "hoarders" lifestyle.  To a child who spent summers in their care--so that my single mother could avoid day care expenses--my grandparents' home was like another world.  Much like Narnia or the world of The Littles, my grandparents' house was an infinite adventure.  (Remember that cartoon from the 80's?  They traveled through the vent system of houses and had buttons on their tails?  MacGuyver-ed airplanes out of pencils and paperclips and such?  No? Just me?  Sorry, is my "latch-key kid" past rearing its head again?)  

Because my grandparents were children of The Depression and lived their lives in The South, things were hard to come by from time to time (that was my grandmother's excuse, at least) and so, they saved. And saved.  And s-a-v-e-d.  My Granny Fannie (yes, that is her name--Fannie Mae Futch--couldn't be more "old Southern" if you tried ;) had huge Mason jars filled with trinkets (before it was Southern chic)--paperclips, rubber bands, buttons, ball point pens that no longer worked, and thumbtacks.  My grandmother amassed boxes and boxes full of yarn and partially crocheted blankets--all designated specifically for someone--"Don't bother that...." she'd chide, "that's for Cousin So-and-So's baby."  My Grandaddy was a jeweller by profession, and in his "stash" lay innumerable gizmos and gadgets from watches and clocks galore.  Opening a cupboard or cabinet in that house was like opening yourself up to a world of exploration and imagination....I would play pirate and pretend the Mason jars were "booty" from ravaged ships, make Indiana Jones-worthy paperclip chains extending into the outer regions, and hide between and betwixt boxes stacked nearly ceiling-high in a hallway and pretend I was hiding in the mud structures of the Ancient Pueblo.  Each new discovery was like a mini-Smithsonian of my grandparents' history.  I remember running out to them as they sat on their screened in porch as they watched the unfolding news of the TWA flight 847 hostage situation or listening to music from the "Live Aid" concert as my grandfather scowled at Willie Nelson's long "sissy-boy" hair. I would exclaim "Granny!  Grandaddy!  Check out what I found in the cabinet in the den!"  And I would revel in their surprised expressions "Lordy, where did that come from?"  I sure felt like Indiana Jones--an archaeologist making some pivotal anthropological discovery never-before seen by men.  In their pecan-strewn red clay and sand covered yard, I channeled Amelia Earhart as I "flew" on the back of my Grandaddy's SEARS & Roebuck riding lawn-mower.  I walked the shores of countless seas as I felt the sand of a back country road between my bare feet, and I pioneered my way through the back country woods.  Surely the big open blue sky above a corn-field in south Georgia was as wide and open over the pyramids of Egypt.  Yes, as ludicrous as it seems, small rural Georgia taught me to think B-I-G.

And, I continue to fulfill my wanderlust.  Not because I'm lost (Would you dare call Indiana Jones lost?  Uh....Let's just let the Amelia Earhart reference slide with that one, how 'bout it?) but ironically just the opposite.  The adventurous spirit that wells up from deep inside me comes from a strong, confident source--the unconditional, always supportive, foundational strength of my roots.  My Mom--who taught me to think outside the box (though she may wish she could have a "do over" on those comments now that she has grandchildren across the globe)--and her parents, who enveloped me with possibility. One thing remains certain, however.....within my 50 pound weight limit to destinations around the world, you'll never catch me without a bag of Georgia grits.....which I cook for my girls here in Bangladesh just like my Granny Fannie did.