The little town sits nestled just outside of Charleston, and has been called some derogatory names--"redneck" the most prominent and negative.  Yet through now more than five years, I've kept this town tied to me--just a slender thread. 

I'd moved to the southern suburb with my first husband, built a new house and hoped for a happy life.  But that plan did not last and instead of making a dream life, we got divorced, and the big new house got sold.  But eventually I did buy a humble blue-sided house in a quiet neighborhood.  The blue was not really that attractive.  Think Maybelline eye shadow or the blue of those country colors so popular in the eighties.  But I painted the door a darker shade of blue to create contrast and placed colorful wreaths on the door that I changed in and out with the four seasons.  I could afford the mortgage.  I decorated the inside to my taste.  I went to work every day in downtown Charleston.  I visited the lovely, small-town library every week.  I kept the yard neat and tidy.  I found a new hair dresser.  I got a dog.

My new husband and I lived in the blue house for a while, but soon he grew tired of living in a house that seemed mostly mine.  We did want a house that was "ours."  So the sale sign went up, and the first person who looked at the little house bought it.  We purchased a bigger house close to the beach.  A brick house.  A stronger house.  Our house.  In my memory, though, the little blue house contained much of who I was--of what I'd become while living there.  That house was like a sanctuary after work.  It was so small, maintenance was a breeze.  I loved reading at the kitchen table on Saturday mornings and drinking hazelnut coffee, my dog sleeping nearby, sun pouring in the windows.  I felt safe--loneliness eased.

Today, though, the fragile thread that kept me attached to that town snapped and broke.  Because I love my hair dresser, (the woman who knows my color formula, who knows just the right way to place my highlights) I kept venturing over to that speck of geography. Debbie announced she was moving to Florida--retiring earlier than expected.  This would be my last time with her. She chattered brightly, telling me that I had "easy" hair; I would find another stylist quickly.  And she gave me some referrals.  Inside, though, I felt sad.  I thought I'd have at least a couple of more years with her.  I'd started going to her salon when my youngest daughter got married.  She'd helped transform my gray roots and gave me a professional look that I'd become dependent on.  And every couple of months when I'd travel over to the little town, I'd drive by the blue house and recall the comfort of those years on my own.  

When I hugged Debbie goodbye, I felt bereft.  She had been my link to this little town and my memories.  I would really have no reason to come back.  As I drove away, I felt the tenderness of leaving.   Changes come, and the transitions of life take over. Often we don't have a say.  I drove past the blue house one last time. It still looked good, now with a newer fence.  I thanked God for all the solace He'd provided me in the humble house, in the "redneck" town, there behind that blue front door.