A Love Story Across The Oceans Part 7: Roll Me Away.

“Took a look down a westbound road, right away I made my choice…”

— Bob Seger, “Roll Me Away”

Roll Me Away.

I remember the first time I saw the lights of San Diego from the hilltops—riding on the back of my friend’s motorcycle, the city laid out below like a jeweled map.

It was stunning. Exciting. Full of promise.

And I couldn’t wait to get started.
Seeing that twinkle, I made up my mind right then and there to relocate here.
I was all in—ready to chase light and possibility with everything I had.

I didn’t come just for the weather… but it didn’t hurt.
Sunshine every day. 

Every. Damn. Day.
For a while, that felt like freedom.
3am beach bonfires after working the night shift at a restaurant bar.
Wind-tangled hair, barefoot everywhere, soft sand and louder laughter—San Diego had rhythm, and I danced to it.
I earned a computer science degree, yes. But I earned a newfound freedom, too.
This city gave me more than a credential—it gave me a taste of something wild, and yet laid-back in a way only SD could pull off.

A friend riding beside us
confided he couldn’t wait to go back to Iowa—was going back to help his dad build a barn. And leave all this? Was he crazy?
I didn’t understand that then.
Not when there was so much twinkle and possibility stretched before us.

Fast forward. Now I get it.

He wasn’t crazy. He was tired of that twinkle; he was played out.
And now, so too was I. And I was ready to leave that twinkle behind.

Because beneath the sparkle… there are shadows.
Dark truths.
Truths that don’t always bite softly.
Some bite deep.
Better left out of reach, though never truly forgotten.

And as Seger’s voice rolled through the desert on the wind—

"I guess I lost my way... I found myself seeking shelter against the wind"—
I could feel it.
The ache.
The shift.
The seeking.

What once felt like glimmer now felt like glare.
I was ready for wood, for nails—
for barns that stand the test of time.
For shelter that doesn’t shimmer—but holds.

I found myself yearning for the seasons.
That first breath of spring—you can smell it in the air, that subtle change.
Crocus pushing up like a whisper, quietly tapping winter out.
Then daffodils giving way to the surge of spring.
Summer follows with a green that surrounds you, holds you close.
Lying on soft grass in the shade of a maple tree sounded like heaven.
Perhaps it was.

I needed rest.
Burning the candle at both ends doesn’t leave much candle to burn another day.
And I had nearly run out.

I needed to touch my roots again—not only touch but draw them in. Seek their strength.
To breathe in the woods of New England, where I was born and bred. 

To return to Connecticut.

Where the map turns familiar and the seasons still speak in full sentences.
Where the trees whisper in soft truths, grounded in history held strong with those roots I talked about.

Where even the air knows my name.

Seger sang about standing on a mountain top, staring out at the Great Divide.

“I could go east, I could go west
It was all up to me to decide
Just then I saw a young hawk flyin'
And my soul began to rise
And pretty soon
My heart was singin'”

This wasn’t just a departure – it was a return.
The feeling I had about moving back to New England wasn't the same as I’d felt on that hilltop years before.
It was a quiet unfolding of calm—not resignation, but a peace I’d never known until now.

I threw the clutch in and shifted.
With Dad riding shotgun, I rolled away—toward CT. Toward home.

My roots were calling, and just like before, I was all in.

Stay tuned for more of #theprairieyankee story!

#theprairieYankee. #FromNewEnglandtoOklahoma #ALoveStoryAcrossTheOceans #theJourneyHome