Sand in my shoes

Exactly 1000 words - Prompt; "They say you can't go home again. Write about going home again."


"Ma'am", that water went somewhere. I know that the meter readers did not make up a number. Are you sure you don't have a leak?” I spent many days dealing with customers like this lady who wanted to convince me that their water bills were too high.

The mystical allure of the coast called out to me in 1982 when I began what became an almost fifteen year career in local government. The peaceful roll of waves upon the shore contrasted greatly with my tedious hours in building and zoning. Hard work led me upward to the tax office and eventually public utilities, yet even the magnificence of the ocean failed to prevent job burnout. I couldn't believe I was contemplating leaving my beloved ocean, but change was beginning to sound inviting

I had been dating a guy from Charlotte that I met online. It had been almost a year and we got along so well. Weekends with him were heavenly and we had talked about me moving to Charlotte. I started applying for jobs in that area. Friends and neighbors told me I was having a mid-life crisis. I would leave my family, my job, my life and start anew. I accepted an offer with Mecklenburg County in their tax office. As the song says, “I packed what I could and sold what I couldn’t”. Twenty five years in one place is a long time.

I moved from a small town where everyone knew my name to Charlotte, NC, from a three bedroom house to a one bedroom apartment, and from living alone to living with another human. Culture shock ensued. The drive to work had gone from two minutes to forty-five minutes, on a good day. People everywhere and no one had time or took the time to stop and say hello or find out about your day.

After a tough year, we bought a townhouse on the outskirts of Charlotte. Being somewhat satisfied, I decided I had done the right thing. The change came when I got a call that my father had a massive heart attack. Being without oxygen for eight minutes; he was now on life support and if I needed to make peace this would be the time. The next two years are a blur.

When I walked into the room of the hospital, there lay a man with tubes in every orifice of his body. A ventilator did his breathing, a feeding tube down his throat fed him and intravenous fluids in both arms to ward off dehydration. This pale skeleton of a man did not resemble my father. My father went full force from the time he pounced out of bed in the morning until he fell exhausted on the couch at night.

We finally made the heart-wrenching decision to take him off life-support, but dad amazed us all when he began breathing on his own. Our amazement turned to despair when the doctor pronounce him brain-dead, with no chance of recovery. He was sent to a rehab center complete with feeding tube, catheter and shocked family.

My father and I had never been close but this called for drastic action. I shared the family trait of being stubborn. I went into overdrive. I made the four hour trip to the coast every weekend. I exhausted all vacation and sick time, not to mention myself, and started the rehab on my own. We did flash cards and puzzles. Every time his eyes would open, I would ask profound questions. I studied everything I could find on brain trauma and knew I only had a few years until the plateau was reached.

We had many months of rehabilitation and moving from skilled care to hospital. My step mother, unable to care for him at home, walked the floor with no ideas how to proceed. He needed constant attention and twenty four hour care. The other human had taken a temporary position in PA and I decided to take a three month family leave and take my father home. This began the end of a once loving relationship.

My stepmother and I, dragging my father, made several trips to the Mayo Clinic in Florida and I spent the better part of three months with my dad. I learned so much about him and became closer to him than I have ever been. He continued to improve which gave me the encouragement to keep trying.

I went back to Charlotte in three months with my dad walking, talking and going to the bathroom on his own. He had physical, speech and occupational therapy several times a week. He became self-sufficient enough that he could be at home. To hear him crack a joke or flirt with the local waitress proved to be worth all the sleepless nights and the worry. This, my miracle, began functioning as a human being.

I received a phone call from my old boss at the beach. She was forty eight years old and had been my boss for most of the fifteen years I worked in local government. She had decided to go to law school; something she had talked about for years. Her job would be available and I became the logical choice; if I had any interest in coming home. I had worked beside her for many years and this was my chance to shine.

Home; do I want to come home? Come back to my family and my friends and my moral support and to my father? Was three years enough to make me appreciate the things I had back home? Do I want sand in my shoes and salt in the air?

All things happen for a reason. My father is doing well and even passed his driver’s test last month. Of course, we don't let him drive but he is proud that he was able to obtain them. He and my stepmother are planning a trip to China this summer. I am now the Tax Collector for that small town; doing a job I love. Sometimes it takes removing yourself from a situation to truly appreciate it. Yes, it’s good to be home again.


This is a true story that happened in June of 2005. I now find that writing about it is good therapy for the soul.










March 24, 2007
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ID: 333655   (Rated: 13+) The Writer's Cramp  Write the best story or poem in 24 hours or less and win 10,000 GPs! by Sophy