The Far-Away Home

That’s what The Boy refers to the impending move as. “The Far-Away Home.” It sounds more like something out of a fairy tale instead of the militia-laden Red State full of white supremacists that it actually is. The Red, White and Crazy Home is a better name for the place.

But what the hell. There’s no avoiding it. The Missus got offered a great gig in the sole liberal bastion of this otherwise vast untamed wilderness of intolerance and Tea Party enthusiasts. But in this economy, I’m strictly a go-where-the-job-is kind of guy, even when the job is taking you down the rabbit hole instead of to the Wonderful Land of Oz.

So we’ve started talking to The Boy about it. Showing him maps and talking vaguely about timetables. Sometimes he understands it’s many, many days away, sometimes he thinks it’s today. “Is Mommy going to the Far-Away Home?” No, she’s just going to work.

I don’t know if my work-at-home job is going to follow me to the Far Away Home and I just found out that The Missus and The Boy are going to need their insurance covered for ninety days after her job switch. So I’m in the precarious predicament of needing to not get fired under circumstances that could easily lead to my firing. And all that’s on the line is my wife and son’s (and mine, come to think of it) medical insurance situation for three months. The kid alone is at the doctor’s at least once a month with a new ear infection.

I’m even getting nostalgic about this awful town I’ve lived in and complained about for so long. I walk my kid home from preschool along a tree-lined path bordered by community gardens and chicken shacks. It’s Shangri-la. These are exactly the kind of memories one dotes on in their old age. I won’t be able to go back then, so I ought to try to enjoy it now.

I don’t think the serious panic/fear/sadness will set in till after the Lost finale a month from now. The calendar fills up pretty quick after that. It’ll be a time of life transitions—which I’m bad at—but also meticulous planning and obsessive attention to detail, a couple of my strong suits.

But everything is on hold till Lost is over. It seems like a convenient, not-altogether arbitrary moment to embark upon the next big mystery/adventure in my otherwise dreary, workaday little life. As one series of made-up mysteries is (hopefully) resolved, I will dive head first into a new, scarier set of real-life mysteries (complete with real-life consequences) with embarrassingly little baggage left over from my decade on Christmas Island.

Like it or not, the Far Away Home gets a little less far-away every day. Reckon I’d best get to liking it.