My mother and I have been talking about "where we live" and she's convinced that her little town in Pennsylvania is the best place to live. "The mountains are beautiful, everything's green, there's never a dull moment with the weather, the town is small enough that people know each other." She gripes about what she remembers from a cross-country trip thirty years ago, "California is just scrub and dried grass, and it's too hot."
I see a different California: the orchards are gorgeous in the spring, the weather is (by and large) wonderful, and I'm close to whatever shopping I need to do. And if it's too hot in the Valley, an hour's trip takes me to chilly coastal weather. I also see a different little town in Pennsylvania: one that's an hour away from a store that sells clothing, though they do have ONE supermarket in town. I see her humidity at 100% for most of the summer; and slushy rains most of the winter. I see hordes of gnats, poison ivy everywhere, and did I mention that you have to go an hour in any direction to find clothing??
The subject of "where we live" came up after I had to take off my headset, turn away, and hack my lungs out for a few minutes. "Do you have a cold?" she asked me.
"No, it's just the almond dust. Makes me cough a little in the mornings until my head clears."
That was all it took to get her going. "That's why I don't like California. Don't you remember how sick I got that one time [this is the 30-odd years ago part] we were out there? I couldn't even speak, the dust and the pollen were so horrible!"
Cough, hack, snort. I cleared my throat and just listened, because in front of me, on the window screen is the evidence that condemns our air. That circle is from a fan in my studio. A fan blowing OUT.
Yes, it's worse outside than in.
But it's not worse outside here than it is in her town, where everyone knows your name and how many pairs of underpants you hung on the back yard clothesline last Monday.
P.S. There is no Macy's there, either.
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