The Landfill is Lovely This Time of Year

Considering the last post called my mental health into question, I probably shouldn't admit that I occasionally drive past the Sedgewick County landfill for fun. Well, it's not really for fun. It's because I'm homesick.

No, I didn't live near a dump as a child, and while I did watch Fraggle Rock, Margery The Trash Heap was not my favorite character. (Red Fraggle played a much more important role in my formative years.)

It's just that I really miss mountains. And hills and trees. And basically any topography that doesn't involve an endless wheat field interspersed with rows of identical beige houses that look just like mine. 

That's what makes this massive mound of trash so familiar. It's the closest thing to a hill that I've seen in nearly three months. So when I have an errand on the east side of town, I jump on Kansas Highway 96, and it takes me right through the middle of the landfill. And for a few brief moments, I pretend I'm not looking at a big pile of garbage.

Isn't it pretty?

See, when you take a girl who's lived her entire life nestled safely between mountain ridges and plop her smack in the middle of pancake-flat Kansas, she tends to feel a bit agoraphobic. Exposed, really.

But the exposure goes further than just the lay of the land. Since moving here, I've felt kind like I'm on display. Like I'm a foreign object that stands out obnoxiously from this barren landscape. A weasel in the corn, so to speak.  

- I sound different yelling at Ellie as she sprints across the Target parking lot.

- I don't know where anything is, and it's apparent in my driving. I give a lot of apologetic waves.

- I don't wear K-State or KU or Chiefs gear on the weekends.

- And I don't end conversations with "Yep," or "You bet." At least not yet anyway.

In truth, no one here pays any more attention to me and my crazy kids than people at home did. (Except of course when Ellie lets herself into the private conference room at a doctor's office, climbs onto the table and jumps around maniacally. True story and a great example of excellent parenting).

But living in an entirely new place really makes you feel like you're being examined by everyone you meet. Or at least to perceive it to be the case.

And while the feeling of being the new kid in town has lessened in the months since we moved, Kansas will never be home. My home will always be 1,000 miles to the east, in a pretty little mountain valley where people talk just like me.

Much, much prettier.