Blacksburg will never take the place of Palmer

Last week, I stood in front of a sign that read “I love Blacksburg because…” and struggled to find words to fill in the blank. ‘But I don’t love Blacksburg,’ I thought to myself. ‘I hate it.’

Blacksburg, Va., is the town in which I have lived for 11 months. I’ve lived here long enough to be “settled in,” whatever that means. Yes, our boxes are all unpacked and we finally bought a mattress. We’ve hung pictures, made friends and memorized the library story time schedule. We’re “settled in,” but I don’t feel “settled down.” I feel more like I’m “settling for” less than my dream.

See, my heart longs for wild, openness of the Matanuska Valley, and I fear I won’t ever feel for Blacksburg, or anywhere else for that matter, the way I do for the rugged mountains and glacial waters of my hometown.

Unfortunately, though my husband and I are both from Palmer, there’s a pretty slim chance Micah will find employment designing self-flying airplanes there. (Unless you know of a company looking for someone with a PhD in Aerospace Engineering, in which case, please email me.) So, over the past few years, I’ve grappled with the very likely reality that I won’t live on Fishhook Road ever again.

A member of my church, Melody Warnick, recently wrote a book called “This is Where You Belong: the Art and Science of Loving Where You Live.” I took the kids to her launch party, where we ate local food, played “Blacksburg Bingo,” and colored with sidewalk chalk. In one room, participants were invited to offer suggestions for “what Blacksburg needs.” I had thousands. A splash pad! A dollar theater! An ice cream sundae store! A good used book store!

But I was stumped when asked to fill out the “I love Blacksburg because…” sign. I certainly harbor no love for the gnat that just flew into my ear, I thought, or for the Virginia Tech football games that nearly double the town’s population. And I don’t love that I have to run a de-humidifier as loud as a jet engine in my apartment at least 12 hours per day to keep my clothes from mildewing.

Eventually, I wrote a bland statement about the number of playgrounds and parks in the area. It’s true, there are quite a few. But my kids have also burned themselves on the slides, so there’s that.

Thinking about how I wished Blacksburg was different was not helping me like it, however, so I began reading Melody’s book. The book is all about “place attachment,” a fancy, science-y term for, well, loving where you live.

In the interest of fairness, Virginia is not an ugly state. It’s green, and there are mountains—sort of. If I cross my eyes it even looks a bit like home, and the mosquitoes are familiar. When it’s time to leave Blacksburg three or four years from now, I will probably love it. I’ll look back with nostalgia on our first basement apartment with the charming cinderblock walls and the hike my husband and I took to Cascade Falls with a kid strapped to each of us.

After all, I have surprised myself by feeling “homesick” for Logan, Utah, where I lived for six years after graduating high school. I long for the things that made Logan home to me— Logan canyon, shave ice stands, beautiful old houses and the Utah State University campus. Ironically, my first impression of the state as an incoming college freshman was “red-hot ugly Hell.”

But it sure would be nice to love Blacksburg now, while I am here, rather than later. Frustrated, I turned to my friends and family for answers. How do you learn to “love where you live” when it’s not Alaska?

My sister Melissa, who grew up in the Last Frontier but now lives in the Aloha State, wrote: “I never stop missing my mountains, the path between Mom and Grannie’s or the midnight sun, because it is a part of my heart. It is who I am.”

Reading that line made me tear up and yearn for hiking in Hatcher’s Pass, family Independence Day trips to our cabin on Lake Louise, and the view of Pioneer Peak from my parents’ porch. My heart is so full when I’m in Alaska, watching my children run and play in the true wilderness that only exists there.

As I contemplated this, I pondered how I could “settle” here, and feel at home. What is there to love about Blacksburg?

A few days ago, I went out after dark to take my garbage out to the dumpster. It was the first time that day I’d been outside, as it had been both too hot and humid or too stormy during the daytime. I looked around and noticed something I’d never seen before: fireflies.

It’s probably cheesy, but I felt like a kids again. Fireflies are kind of magical! My husband and I have gone out in our backyard to play with them at night several times since then—once my husband even got them to trail after him, just like the scene in “The Good Dinosaur.” Watching my kids play with them a few days later was even better. “Oh, oh oh! Cool!” they yelled, and I felt the little tug on my heart that I get every once in a while when I sense an important memory is being made. A tiny voice whispered in my head, “This IS cool. I LOVE fireflies, and they are something I can only experience here—not in Alaska.”

If I could fill out my “I love Blacksburg because” sign again, I’d write, “there are fireflies here.”

I know Blacksburg, Va., will never take the place of Palmer, Alaska, in my heart, and I can’t say I love it here—not yet. But slowly, I think I can learn. Because if I love fireflies, maybe there are lots of new and interesting things to love about Blacksburg I can still discover. What other aspects of this place will I learn to love, if I start really trying?