Beaver
With it being Pride month and with my being a lesbian let’s be clear.
I’m not talking about that kind of Beaver.
I am talking about what it means to be home, and how in a strange way a Beaver guided me there.
If we’re calling home the place where one was born and grew up, that would be Philadelphia, PA. Not exactly Philadelphia, mind you, since I was a suburban-raised kid. The Main Line suburbs of Philly are a truly lovely place to grow up. If you’ve never been, do check it out — Spring or Fall is best — when everything’s in bloom or the fall colors are doing their thing.
There’s a deep sense of history, it being the route along which George Washington and his troops headed to Valley Forge. It’s filled with gorgeous neighborhoods abundant with lovely homes and streets lined with enormous old trees.
Somehow, though, it never felt like home.
I used to joke that in high school I was voted “most likely to move away and never come back.” That wasn’t actually a thing, mind you, but I did feel like my high school graduation had me running the anchor leg of a relay race. The minute that diploma hit my hand I couldn’t run fast enough. Jumped to the midwest for college and then 10 days after my graduation from Northwestern, it was a sprint West.
When I exited the plane in California, something strange happened.
I felt like I’d been there before.
Thing is, I hadn’t. Farthest west for me at that point was a visit to St. Louis, MO. I interviewed for the California job by phone and took it sight unseen (not something I would recommend doing, by the way). But somehow, even in the parking lot of my hotel there was something about the light, about the air, that just felt familiar. Felt safe.
This is where the Beaver comes in.
Because at the start of this year when I headed to Central Virginia for an extended working sabbatical, I found myself driving across the country. Most spots felt nice, comfortable, interesting, but there was no connection. There were other spots along the way — Albuquerque most notably — where the energy felt decidedly repellent.
My meandering trek took me along the southern part of the US, detouring a bit for a trip to Southern Florida to visit my mom (her 90th birthday) and then I pointed the car north and headed for my final destination.
Along the way I kept seeing these signs. Enormous. Bright yellow with red writing. With oddly saucy statements, considering the parts of the South through which I was driving.
“Beaver — Always Open”
“We See a Beaver in Your Future”
“The Beaver Made Me Do It”
“Beaver: You Can Hold It”
Turns out, it’s a roadside rest stop called Buc-ees that, dare I say, seems to have some magical properties. And their mascot? You guessed it, a beaver.
Filled the gas tanks, emptied my own tanks (besides an utterly epic store, ridiculously vast branded swag section and superb and diverse food selection, the thing Buc-ee’s is really known for … is the bathrooms. For what it’s worth, if you have a chance to stop at one of these places, do. It’s an adventure. And they’re doing something right, Forbes recently placed them #1 on a national list of Customer Service All Stars beating out some pretty big brands.
When I stepped out of the store, I glanced at my GPS and saw that taking a right turn out of the parking lot actually put me on a slightly faster route to my destination. The former route was mostly along Interstate 95, while this one cut me immediately onto county back road.
I was totally up for it.
So away I went, and found myself on gloriously quiet meandering country roads. One lane in each direction, lined with farms, fields and rolling hills. It was winter, the first week of July, so most trees were barren and fields bare. I passed through a number of small towns and the terrain became a bit more windy and curved as I made my way towards the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
It was the night of the full moon, and she was just starting to rise in the east, while in the rear window the sun was dropping closer to the horizon. I came up a hill and as I rose to the top the valley floor dropped down below me and stretched as far as I could see. Hanging low in the sky, just above the tree line, was the burnished copper of the full moon — cast in the amber rays of the setting sun that was directly behind me.
There are some sights that define breathtaking.
This was one of them.
A sharp intake of air and I held it a second, almost as if doing that could hold this glorious moment. Despite the road being empty behind me, I pulled to the side so that I could revel in it properly for a moment.
That’s when it happened.
The voice was so soft, I don’t think I’d have heard it if I’d been in motion. With engine idling and sitting still, it was clear.
“Welcome home.”
It’s a strange thing to arrive in a place and to feel immediately like it’s home. I was still about an hour from my final destination but something about that moment told me that this next chapter in my journey was going to be a very good one.
