Halfway between the U.P. and Tennessee is a small, welcoming town that goes by the name of Muncie, Indiana. This little redneck town is where my mother calls “home”. I’ve been there, to the town of Muncie, quite a few times. In fact I lived there for about six months when I was a year old. There’s long stretches of black, cracked asphalt that forms to the rolling hills and the curves of the farmlands. Corn grows on every corner in the rural parts. In the summer kids are always outside, swimming and playing, enjoying life no matter what they are doing. An average farm town with your average restaurants and diners and your average people.
There’s two small lake houses that hold countless memories of a summer spent with family a few years back. Fresh memories of the kids trashed house and the parents semi-orderly house, two different houses because the seven of us kids were too much to handle in one house. Us girls would act like the boys, rough-housing and racing to the dock at midnight. There were four girls, one was too young so she stay with the adults, and three older boys. The boys
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Somewhere closer to town on a broken road lies the house that created many of my firsts. My first fist fight, which was a win. There was blood from my cousin’s nose everywhere. We were five. The first time I learned how to play an instrument. It was a guitar from Guitar Hero, and I would play it for hours upon hours with my cousins in their small, cozy living room. Memorizing every key to Cherry Pie, Free Bird, and Sweet Child O’ Mine while singing the wrong lyrics at the top of my lungs.
By the end of each week-long stay our skin would be a little more tan and hearts a little more heavy, dreading the parting of our families and the long car ride home. I’ll always remember the smell of pool chlorine and earthy farm air; and the sounds of Guitar Hero and kids laughing everytime I think about Muncie. The place my mother calls