Calling Bowling Green Home

There is something about the word home. For some people, home is the place where they were born. For others, it is where they grew up, where their parents still live, or where they spent their childhood summers. And then there are those of us who discover home somewhere along the way. For me, that place is Bowling Green, Kentucky. I came here nearly 40 years ago with my late wife, Patty, who was from Russellville. I was a young man who had grown up in Memphis, Tennessee, spent some of my formative years in Mississippi, and attended the University of Mississippi in Oxford. For a long time, I thought I would always miss those places. I missed Memphis. I missed Oxford. I missed Ole Miss—the people, the memories, the Southern atmosphere and the places that had shaped me. I still love those places, and I always will. But somewhere along the way, Bowling Green stopped being the place I had moved to and became the place I belonged. It became home.

After nearly four decades, I don't feel like I'm living somewhere temporarily. This is where my life happened. This is where I worked, made friends, built a marriage and a life with Patty, and watched a community grow and change. This is where I learned that home isn't necessarily where you started. Sometimes it's where you stayed. One of the things I've noticed over the years—particularly through my work at Walmart—is how many people I encounter who are new to Bowling Green. Some are visiting, some are passing through, and some have just moved here. I've talked with people from all over the country: California, Washington, New York, the Midwest and the Northeast. People who have lived in big cities and expensive metropolitan areas are sometimes looking for something different. Many tell me they like Bowling Green. They like the pace, the people and having room to breathe. Compared with some of the country's most expensive communities, they often find that their money goes farther here. That's not to say Bowling Green doesn't have its challenges. Every city does. But there is something appealing about a community that can still feel like a city without losing the character of a town. And perhaps even more remarkable is the fact that Bowling Green has become home to people who have traveled much farther than California or New York. Immigrants and refugees have arrived from countries and communities affected by war and political instability, carrying their languages, traditions, memories and stories with them. They came looking for safety, opportunity and a chance to build another chapter of their lives. They found a home here, too. That's one of the things I love about Bowling Green: home doesn't have to look the same for everybody. Working as a front-end cashier gives you an unusual perspective on a community. You see people—lots of people. You see those who have lived here all their lives. You see families who have just moved into town. You see travelers stopping for a few days. You see people buying groceries for their first apartment and people shopping for the home they've lived in for 50 years. And occasionally, you have a conversation that stays with you. Just yesterday, I met a couple from Seattle, Washington. The gentleman told me he was a trial attorney and was in Kentucky working on a case. We happened to get into a conversation about plastic bags and the amount of plastic such as water and soda bottles that eventually makes its way into the world's oceans. He jokingly asked me why someone from Kentucky would care about that. I told him I'm a journalist and a writer. I studied journalism at Ole Miss, worked for newspapers, and spent years observing people and communities and trying to understand the world around me. That's what writers do. We notice things. We ask questions. We look beyond our own front porch. Being from Kentucky doesn't mean you only care about Kentucky. The oceans belong to all of us. The environment belongs to all of us. The problems facing humanity don't stop at the state line. I've watched documentaries about the enormous amount of plastic entering the oceans—plastic bottles, containers, packaging, bags and countless other pieces of plastic. There are even technologies being developed to collect plastic from the ocean. It's a reminder that something as ordinary as a plastic bag can eventually become part of a much larger story. That's the way I tend to look at life. I observe. I think. I write. And I try to understand. Maybe that's why I understand the people who move to Bowling Green. Because I remember being the newcomer. I remember coming here nearly 40 years ago and having to build a life in a place that wasn't the place where I grew up. Eventually, the unfamiliar became familiar. The streets became recognizable. The faces became friends. The community became mine. And the city I once thought of as somewhere I had moved to became the city I couldn't imagine leaving. That's what happens sometimes. You don't necessarily choose home all at once. Home chooses you slowly. It happens through ordinary days, through jobs and friendships, through marriage and family, through loss and heartbreak, through the places where you celebrate and the places where you grieve. It happens through the grocery-store conversations, the people you see at church, the familiar streets, the restaurants you return to and the people who recognize you when you walk through the door. Eventually, you realize something: I'm home. Bowling Green isn't perfect. No place is. But perhaps perfection isn't what we're really looking for. Maybe we're looking for a place where we can build something—a place where a young couple can begin a life, where someone from California can find a community that feels more affordable and manageable, where someone from Seattle can pass through and have an unexpected conversation with a Kentucky cashier about the oceans, and where an immigrant or refugee fleeing a war-torn country can begin again. And maybe it's a place where somebody born in Memphis can arrive at 24 years old and, nearly 40 years later, realize that he doesn't miss home anymore—because he found another one. I still love Memphis. I still love Mississippi. And Ole Miss will always have a special room in my heart. I keep up with the Rebels, still follow the university, and still have friends and memories there. You never have to abandon where you came from to appreciate where you are. But today, when somebody asks me where home is, I don't have to think very long. I live in Bowling Green, Kentucky. I've lived here for almost 40 years. And after all those years, I can finally say it without hesitation: Bowling Green isn't just where I live. It's home.