A little more than two weeks ago, I was cramming in a birthday, a final exam, and a two-day moving trip in a small amount of time. It all hit me at once and, like ripping off a band-aid, it was too quick to feel.

The exam was a pleasant experience. Williams insists on calling them writing opportunities and now I understand why. He dislikes the term exam and now so do I. Thankfully, it was a pleasing end to a lovely summer term with my academic hero and I came away with another “A” from the University of Michigan – something I’ll be using for future application to their PhD program.

The past nine months at Michigan in Ann Arbor have been a great bonding experience with my home town. We experience our hometowns differently as we grow, I feel. I don’t see it the way I did when I was younger. In childhood, it was simply the place where my mother worked and I went to Catholic school. In high school, it was the place to come and do something – anything to get away from the small town of Hamburg, just north of A2. But who truly appreciates their hometown when they’re a teenager?

Oscar Wilde understood the change when he left Ireland and loved his home country from across the Irish Sea in England. Yeats often wrote about Ireland when he was away from it. They discovered the shift that happens in the relationship with one’s home. I’m starting to understand that now.

My parents wanted me to go to Michigan for my undergraduate education. However, being a teenager, I wanted to “go away to school.” The typical response, I believe. I don’t really regret that decision. Nor do I regret not applying to Michigan for my MFA, since my experience at Wyoming was so amazing. And now, for the next two years, I’ll be out east at the University of New Hampshire for the Masters in Literature, since Michigan doesn’t offer an MA program.

Just this past week, I gave my students an in-class writing assignment to describe their hometowns. It was a chance for them to discover that they can be proud of the places from where they come. A few responses stood out from the others, pride showing through with small descriptors that set a clear scene. It was obvious who truly knew their hometown as though it were an entity and character, as opposed to those who were simply telling me about Anytown, USA. That old “show, don’t tell.” We’ll work on that.

The trip here was a long haul, with my Honda Element (Penelope) so stuffed with boxes of books and my bike (O’Malley) that I couldn’t see out the back. I broke the drive in half by spending the night in Ottawa with my aunt Lizzie. I was lucky enough to get there in time for dinner and a walk on the River Parkway with my cute little cousin, Julyan. Naturally, I came bearing gifts of maize and blue and taught him the importance of saying “GO BLUE!” whenever he wears his new presents.

I’m excited to be in New England, a mere six hour drive from my family in eastern Canada. For the first time ever, I’m in a relatively close proximity to them. Already, I’ve planned to spend Canadian Thanksgiving in Saint John, NB.

I also can’t wait to explore the Maine shorelines. I’ve already spent a day-trip in Ogunquit, Maine and walking the Marginal Way – a footpath following the shoreline that leads to Perkin’s Cove. Here, I stopped for a lobster roll and some salt water taffy, which I took back to the beach with me to watch the sunset.

It’s going to be a a good two years when I’ve got this in my back yard: