Home is Where the Rain Smells Best

I feel no regret as the plane takes off from Dulles airport, partly because it is seven-thirty in the morning and I have been up since four, partly because it is summer vacation, and I am going home. Home. I settle back in my seat with The Grapes of Wrath unopened on my lap. I have been living in Virginia for nearly a year, but whenever I think of home I think of golden California. They say I am an east coast girl at heart; I was born in Connecticut after all. But I do not remember Connecticut at all. I was two when we moved. These days the east coast and the green of Virginia have been paying me suit, but when all is said and done, California – crazy, dry old California, got to me first.

The trip is long. Five hours on the plane, with one stop and one layover, is enough to try anyone’s patience. I am tired and my eyes feel scratchy from lack of sleep. My legs are getting cramped, and as usual the plane's air conditioning is slowly freezing me. I keep looking at the time, hoping it has moved, but it crawls at a snail’s pace. I try to catch some sleep, but I have never been good at sleeping in a moving vehicle, even if I have been up since four in the morning. I focus instead on editing the manuscript I have brought along, but soon grow tired of that. It is very easy to lose interest when you are on a very long plane trip. I would so much rather be on a train. A train trip across country takes several days, but it is leisurely and you can get up and move around. It is a mode of transportation that is much more friendly to the creative process.

I pull out The Grapes of Wrath again and find where I left off. The Joads are heading to California. I am heading to California. The Promised Land? Some may say yes, others no. The Joads said yes. The land of opportunity? Not these days. We are stuck in a recession as bleak as the neglected fields of the Joads’ homestead. Well, Promised Land, land of opportunity; whatever you may choose to call it, I call it home.

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California is dry. It has not rained much in the last year. Everything is brown and gold. The golden grass of California does something to a girl who has been gone for months. To see the wind, the ever-present wind, blow the grass gently or fiercely in turn, stirs the heart. You may say we are crazy. Oh, but it is true.

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At last, here is San Diego. I still have one layover and several hours left of my trip, but home is closer. I am now on California soil, so to speak. I begin to feel excitement deep in the pit of my stomach. It is either that or the motion of the plane. I wait in my seat as new passengers board the plane, bound for Sacramento. The seats next to me are empty, and I hope they will stay that way, but soon a man and woman slide in next to me, a middle-aged Oriental couple. They smile and we exchange the usual pleasantries of fellow passengers, then fall silent. I return to The Grapes of Wrath and wait for the plane to take off.

It takes off with the usual roar of sound. The woman next to me crosses herself and prays silently, much to my surprise, as that is what I am about to do. The flight to Sacramento is not long, and when we arrive I am glad to stretch my legs for a little while as I wait for my connection.

Another hour on the plane. This time, I sit next to a woman with a raspy smoker’s voice. She saves a seat for her husband who arrives soon after. He is a grisly bearded man with tattoos who smiles kindly at me. They are both very kind. The woman and I make small talk, and she offers me a stick of gum. They are on their way to Las Vegas. But I am going home.

Home. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are now beginning our final descent into Burbank…” My stomach jumps with excitement. The plane lands and I step out onto California soil. Well, asphalt, really. But no matter. This is California. This is where I belong.

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I will never forget the golden hills of my home. It is nothing like the lush green fields of the east coast, but it still does something to me every time I see it after a long absence. It is ingrained in me like my love of music and writing. I never will, never could forget. It has a song of its own, that golden grass. The wind whistles through it, bringing in the scent of wind-kissed sage grass. I have never particularly loved wind. In fact, it often drives me to distraction. But it too is ingrained in me, as is the golden grass. Sometimes the wind brings destruction, but sometimes it brings life. It blows in the spring, whisking away the deadness of the old year.

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The storm clouds gather on the horizon, and soon they loom overhead. We wait expectantly, hoping for the rain. We have not had rain in so long, not real rain. The air is charged with the expectancy of the coming rain. The wind blows the clouds around, rearranging them until they are primed for opening. The first drops fall and hit the dusty ground.

I sit at my desk by the open window. It is dark outside, and the fresh, pungent smell of California rain wafts in. There is nothing like the smell of this dry country during rain. It is fresh and delightful. It smells of wet earth and rabbitbrush. I can never grow tired of it. There is nothing else like it. I have missed the smell of the rain. In Virginia the rain just smells damp, and the air is heavy. Here the air is light and crisp. I forget how much I miss it until I come back.

They say home is where the heart is. While I am not fond of platitudes and clichés, I do believe this one to be true. Though I have been living on the east coast for nearly a year, it is not really home. Perhaps someday I will make my home permanently on the east coast, and perhaps I will come back to California. Perhaps I may even, as my father suggests, go to live in Switzerland, though the possibilities of that are rather slim. But as of now, my heart is not in the lush greenwoods of Virginia, but in the golden hills of California, and the majestic mountains. But most of all it is in the smell of a warm summer rain and the rustle of the wind in the leaves. Home is where the rain smells best.