livin’ is easy and the taxes are high - Moon, Pennsylvania

 Here in Moon, Pennsylvania, where the livin’ is easy and the taxes are
high, Chez Lounge is jumpin’ and the
bullets fly, I’ve managed to settle into my new life as a transplanted
Floridian.  Well, actually, I confess I was born in
Ashtabula, Ohio.  But 36 years in Florida would seem to cancel out the
Northerner in me.
 And yet, I feel like I’ve come home.
 The grass here smells like it did in my Grandma Van Slyke’s backyard
when I visited as a child.  Mom would
send me out back to play so she and Grandma could talk in peace.  The
tiny backyard, visible from the window in the
breakfast nook with the ledge filled with sunflower seeds for the
redbirds, was a short walk from the side door up the
shared driveway.  I’d step over the curved wire edging onto the footpath
and feel like I was in a special, private place.
 At the center was a birdbath made of mortar and small, rounded river
stones.  Grandma kept it filled with
water for the birds to bathe in.  I liked to splash my hands in it,
flicking water out at my little brother on those
occasions when he’d follow me there.  But mostly, I was alone.
 Surrounding the small, grassy area with the birdbath were the most
wonderful plants!   Nothing like we had
in Florida.  There was lily of the valley, which was also Grandma’s
favorite scent.  Sometimes she’d let me have a dab
of her perfume to put behind my ears.  Back then I didn’t mind smelling
like my grandma.
 There were the currant bushes, planted up against the sides of the
garages that formed the side boundaries of
the yard.  It was so exciting to see the bright berries that I knew
Grandma would turn into small, clear jars of
beautiful red jelly.  I would eat buttered toast with her jelly for
breakfast every morning.  Then she always presented
me with my very own jar to take home at the end of our visit.  It made
me feel special.
 Stalks of rhubarb grew up against the house.  Grandma prized them for
her pie baking, but I was not a fan.
Give me apple or cherry pie, please, and hold the weird stuff.  Pie
should be made from fruit off a tree.  Or, at the
very least, pudding!
 And there at the back of the yard was the pear tree.  At bedtime my
mother used to tell me stories about
when she was a little girl.  My favorite was the one about the time she
was stuck in the tree and couldn’t get down.
I’d giggled when she confessed she’d wet her pants.  It made her seem so
HUMAN.  I made her repeat that story
over and over.  “Tell me about that time in the pear tree,” I’d beg.
 Grown now and returned to the North,  I go to the farmers’ markets and
buy homemade jellies and fresh
vegetables that remind me of what I’ve missed over the past 30-odd
years.  I buy fruit pies at Fratangelo’s and
Soergel’s that remind me of Grandma’s.  And when I smell the fresh-cut
grass after mowing I am comforted at being
here.
 Life is so full of twists and turns.  It never is what we expect.
Given a choice, my husband and I both agreed
we never would have come here on our own.  What?  Leave the sun and warm
winter weather.  We thought we were
happy there.  But you go where the job takes you, and here we are.  In a
place with gorgeous hills, changing seasons,
warm people, and a sense of the familiar.
 Life is good!