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An Open Letter to my Hometown

Allie Marsh

May 31, 2016

I cannot bring myself to understand them; their words are a foreign language. “I can’t wait to leave.” “Nothing EVER happens here.” “I’m going to leave and never come back.” These words bitterly echo through the air, bouncing through the school hallways. What have you ever done to them? Why do they feel this way? Why do I not feel the same? I’ll be wistfully leaving you in a few months, supposedly following the yellow brick road to my promised land, with my boxes, books, and cold feet.

I can picture my departure. It will look a movie scene, with a hopeful sounding acoustic guitar playing in the background, as a girl stares out a car window. The focus will fade between the reflections of passing leafy trees and her tear-stained face, as she tries to be hopeful about what is to come. I know that it’s time to move on, but for me, it’s no small feat to accept that. I feel as if I am sitting in the cockpit of Apollo 11’s capsule as the countdown passes T-10 seconds, absolutely terrified with a hint of exhilaration.

You cannot even begin to imagine how much I will miss you, or be able to count the reasons why. I’ll miss my long walks on your beaches during the autumn, winter, spring—and I’ll even miss my frustration with the influx of unfamiliar inhabitants crowding all of my paths, whether on the beach or in the grocery store, during “the season.” I’ll miss speeding down your Million Dollar Mile, my dangerous encounters in the Coffee’s Country Market Parking lot warzone, and finding my schoolteachers at the Old Lyme Inn at 7pm sharp for Trivia Tuesdays. I’ll even miss getting stuck behind the Mass Lady, Mr. Tibbs, and your many Subarus that are cluttered with Obama 2012 and “No Farms No Food” bumper stickers, all of which have a habit of traveling 6 miles per hour under your already slow speed limits. Maybe while I’m gone, you can change McCurdy Road’s speed limit to at least 35 mph, on the stretch past the Country Club, because 25 mph is just too slow—ask anyone.

Eventually, I’ll have to learn to lock my car in my own driveway, take my purse and keys out of the ignition, and then proceed to open my new home’s locked door and remember to lock it behind me. I’ll have to memorize new roads, routes, highways, and overwrite exit 70 and 71’s significance in my mind.

You’re a riddle. I’ll leave with so many unanswered questions. Why do the Nativity figurines from the 1960s still occupy my neighbors yard after Valentine’s Day? Why is it “the buzz” of the town when a non-white family moves in? Why is it a sin to be apathetic to both the Red Sox and Yankees? What do they even sell at the E.F. Watermelon? —Because I am under the impression that it isn’t watermelons. Why is Halls Road probably the only street in America where you can get off the highway, rob 4 banks, and get right back on the highway?

What baffles me the most is that local statistics show that your “haters” today will most likely be the first people to try to buy a home on your land, in the future. They’ll find out that they miss your 28.2 square miles, breathtaking #OLsunsets, Vecchito’s Italian Ice, people lacking in “street smarts,” and Pumpkin, the Alpaca, at the Christmas Eve Service at the Congregational Church. They will want to take their kids to the Memorial Day Parade in the spring, to the Midsummer Festival in the summer, to see the fiery foliage in autumn, and to the golf course to go sledding in the winter. They’ll learn that you are one of the most hidden gems of the world, a paradise, and they will come crawling back.

Old Lyme, you will always hold such a special place in my heart. I have such deep roots in your soil. While I will be leaving, the ticket will never be one-way. I’ll always return. Always. You are part of who I am and I know that no matter how hard life may get, you will have my back. You are beautiful and unforgettable. Don’t let the frustrated BMW driving high-schoolers, who don’t realize how wonderful they have it, tell you anything less.

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