Flight
Oil on canvas, 24×24

By Carrie Jacobson

A couple years ago, my dad told me that his father’s brother had been a hobo. A real, honest to God, rail-riding hobo. He’d gone all over this country, on trains and on foot, and had traveled and bummed around Europe, as well.

When he came home, irregularly and not often, to the family’s house in Philadelphia, my great-grandparents wouldn’t let him sleep in the house. He slept on the porch, and, I imagine, ate his meals there.

He had lots of issues, including alcoholism, and he died young. And no one ever talked about him. I was 56 when I heard about him for the first time.

But it explained a lot to me.

Before we were married, Peter lived in the same apartment for 13 years. In the next 20 years, we moved 12 times. Some of the moves were for work – that’s the way it is in newspapers. If you want to climb quickly, you have to move. But some, I admit, were because I was itching to see something new.

I’ve promised Peter we won’t move from Wachapreague, here on the Eastern Shore of Virginia. If he wants to move, we’ll move. But I won’t instigate it.

And I don’t have to. This artist’s life involves more driving and more traveling than I’d ever imagined. I leave today for Indianapolis and the Broad Ripple Art Fair, then head to Northampton, MA, for the Paradise City Arts Festival. A week later, I’m headed to Annapolis, and shortly after that, Rhode Island.

So I get explore my hobo heritage – and Peter gets to stay here, settled and rooted and happy being at home.

And the best part of it is that when I’m away I miss home. And when I’m home, I know there’s nowhere better on the planet.