6

My eleven-year-old son and his friend were folding paper airplanes at our kitchen table after school. His friend asked something that seemed random, but maybe had to do with flying and far away places.

"Where in New York City did you live?"

"We didn't live in New York City."

"But you lived in New York?"

"Yeah."

"Is New York City in New York?"

It was hard not to laugh.

"Yes! But we lived near Syracuse, in upstate New York. New York is a state, not just a city."

"Oh, okay," said his friend.

I don't blame him for not knowing the difference. People often assume we lived in the City when we tell them we moved from New York. The eastern United States feels a long way from Utah. When I was young, I had a vague notion about the state and that was only thanks to a childhood trip to Niagara Falls and LDS Church history sites in Palmyra, news reports of record winter snow, and a college housemate from Buffalo who everyone (including me) assumed was from the City. I could never figure out why she seemed naive and wasn't street wise. After living in upstate New York for five years and visiting the City, it's hilariously obvious they are entirely different, totally unrelated places.

I was thankful for my son's friend's question. It brought back many happy memories. I miss riding my bike through the beautiful, green, rolling countryside full of wildlife; I miss walking through forests with on-fire-like leaves in fall; I miss canoeing on blue green lakes (how I miss Beaver Lake!); I miss pick-your-own farms of strawberries, blueberries, apples, and pumpkins; I miss small town festivals with great bands, goats, alpacas being sheared, warm cinnamon donuts and apple cider; I miss living in our big new home with its hardwood floors, awesome bathtub, and fabulous granite kitchen island; and  perhaps most of all, I miss our dear, old New York friends.

My son's friend has gone home and the paper airplanes are long crumpled on the floor. Time to make dinner.