Within the shoe boxes that lazily rest in the attic of my closet, I have a pair of red patent leather Mary Janes and a pair of red suede pumps with pink trim. No sparklers. But it hasn't prevented me from finding the way back home throughout the years I've been away. I was actually wearing cowboy boots last Wednesday morning when I flew the friendly skies back to Pittsburgh to visit my family for Easter.
The trip was smoother than a Twister, but with two kids and one Mom less graceful than Glinda's floating bubble. Regardless, we made it, and Nana's hug on the other side of security was warmer than Aunt Em's and Uncle Henry's wash cloth.
While my beloved hometown continues to evolve, in many ways moving straight from the early 90s to a very hip, modern metropolis, much of what I love about the city stays the same. Emerging from the Fort Pitt Tunnel to an epic view of the city's glowing skyline makes you feel infinite. The roads that meander in concert with the rolling geography force you to lose all sense of direction. Prantl's pastries are still perfectly glazed with icing and Soba's cocktails are still deliciously buzzworthy. Although the sidewalks around the East End seem to get bumpier and bumpier, the morning views of Downtown and Oakland around their bends are as beautiful as ever. Descendants of Carnegie, Frick and Mellon still hang out at the Pittsburgh Golf Club, and stressed out lawyers extend courtroom disputes on the Rivers Club basketball court. The same smiling sales people are waiting to take care of you at Littles, while the same skeptical sales women at Dina Ellen give you the once over. The people still talk with a twang they call Pittsburghese, they dress like everyday is Super Bowl Sunday, and they make daring Pittsburgh lefts before the oncoming traffic steps on the gas. And nestled away above my parents garage, my childhood room remains almost exactly as I left it.
The dulcimer I made in fifth grade still plucks. my clarinet still croons, and my tap shoes can still muster up a good jingle. Molly McIntire and her collection of miniature 1940's memorabilia teach history lessons and the Fisher Price Guys make the mechanics of city life approachable for tiny hands. The books that I never got around to reading still line the shelves and my collection of china animals continue to collect dust in their shadow box. My night stand is crammed with photos and letters and a collection of Disney read along tapes; my desk is framed with accolades from St. Edmund's, Ellis, and Notre Dame; and my closet boasts some of my more garish dance costumes from recitals past. Home, is as sweet as I remember it.
It was the first time in a while that I had celebrated Easter in Pittsburgh. It was also a first for Peter, Mary and Bobby. And my parents didn't skimp on making it a memorable time for all of us. I'd say it was perfect, but there were of course some blunders. Mary won the fussiest child at St. Bede's award, the Easter Bunny was a little creepier than I remember, I felt nostalgic for the great McMurray egg hunt, there were major sugar highs and lows, and par for the course, I found a way to get sick once again. But I loved every minute of being home for the holiday.
On Monday morning, my kids clicked their shoes and found themselves back in their Midwestern home by midday. Judging by their extended naps that afternoon, I think they liked being in their own beds, in their own rooms, in their own, familiar house. It made me hopeful that I'm creating a place for them as special as the one my parents created for me and my brother and sister. And I hope that even if they don't have red shoes when they're older, they will find a way to click their heels together and find their way home as frequently as possible.
Lo.
