Setting course for a familiar South

In the Avis rental car, I set my GPS for Elizabeth City, the small North Carolina town where my elderly father had recently died. A row of fuchsia blooming crepe myrtles along the road leaving the Norfolk Airport transports me back in time.

Our Navy family was stationed in the area 20 years ago. We lived in a Dutch Colonial house in the Virginia Beach suburbs. It was a sweet time for our young family, where we had impromptu driveway parties with neighbors, our kids rode scooters in the cul-de-sac, and we could hear the elementary school announcements from our front porch.

During the sweltering summer months when school was out, I packed a small cooler with juice boxes, sandwiches, Go-Gurts and Cosmic Brownies, and took the kids to local pools or beaches. We’d come home in the late afternoon to rest, where our house stayed cool under the shade of towering loblolly pines. If the mosquitoes weren’t bad, we’d sit outside in the evening and listen to the crickets while the kids chased fireflies.

These memories accompany me on my trip south to retrieve the ashes of my father.

The humid air invading the vents of my rental car are infused with a familiar aroma. Of brackish water. Of strip malls with ice cream joints. Of Saturday youth soccer games with orange wedges. Of crab cakes and baskets of hush puppies. Of steam radiating from hot sidewalks after a summer rain.

I follow signs south, leading me beyond the urban sprawl. Just across the border into North Carolina, the land becomes a mix of marshy forested wetlands dotted with bear crossing signs, and velvety verdant farmland where neat rows of corn and soybeans bask in the sun.

The small houses clustered here and there along the road tell a story of hard work. Old inoperable tractors with grass growing high around their wheels stand as yard ornaments.

Hand-painted signs advertise freshly picked green beans, tomatoes and peaches. White clapboard churches, vacant and slumbering, wait for Sunday.

Graceful mimosa trees join the crepe myrtles, their peachy-pink flowers adding a soft touch to the scenery. I spy a few magnolias, their bold white flowers standing out against waxy dark leaves. In this moist, hot climate, all vegetation appears to grow aggressively and uncontrolled, fed by the waters of the Pasquotank River flowing from the Great Dismal Swamp. I whiz by trees, fences and entire houses smothered by wild grapevines.

Approaching Elizabeth City — not really a city at all — billboards and businesses welcome me. Like Pavlov’s proverbial dog, my mouth waters when I see a Currituck BBQ pink neon sign. I imagine pulled pork with vinegary Carolina sauce, piled high on a bun with creamy coleslaw and a side of fried green tomatoes.

My hunger homes in on a pickup truck parked alongside the road, overflowing with plump local cantaloupes and watermelons. I plan my meals for the day.

But not yet. There’s too much to do.

At my father’s assisted living facility, I’ll be met by the sweet southern staff who’ll offer their condolences. For three days, I’ll sort through his belongings, clear out his apartment, pay his bills, return his cable boxes, cash in his big change jar and pick up his ashes at Mitchell Funeral Care and Cremations. Following his explicit instructions, I’ll mix his ashes with his wife’s and their dogs’, and sprinkle them over the brackish southern waters of Currituck Sound.

We live in a vast and beautiful country, where each region has its own distinct character, climate, customs and culture. As military families, we’re fortunate to have the opportunity to experience new places, not as tourists, but as residents who must acclimate, assimilate and adapt. At each new duty station, we store memories of past homes deep in our psyches, where they stay until something, or someone, unpacks them.

I park at Brookdale Senior Living facility, and step out into the familiar humidity, ready to face the difficult tasks at hand. I’m reminded that our nomadic military lives leave pieces of us everywhere, imprinting on our souls. No matter how far I wander, I’m grateful that I often feel like I’m coming home.

Read more at themeatandpotatoesoflife.com and in Lisa’s book, “The Meat and Potatoes of Life: My True Lit Com.” Email: meatandpotatoesoflife@gmail.com