Missing Mass.

Some of you may know that I grew up in Massachusetts.

Obligatory Exchange:

You: Funny, you don't have an accent.

Me: Only Bostonians have an accent. I'm from Western Mass. We enunciate more clearly than any other region of the country, or so I've been told.

(I've since met more people from all over the country, and while it may be partially true, there are accent-less people everywhere.)

Anyway. I lived in MA from age 1 to age 16, when my mother remarried and we moved to upstate New York (halfway between Hudson and Albany). A year later, I went to college in Ohio, and six months after that, they moved to Connecticut. I lived in Michigan, California (for two weeks), Maryland, and now Pennsylvania, where I've lived second-longest.

But you never forget your home state. I was lucky, and have mostly good memories. I evoke my New-Englandness several times every winter:

"I grew up in New England. I learned to drive through the Berkshires. I'm not afraid of a little snow."

I miss a lot about Mass. The foliage (it's okay down here, not always spectacular). The real snow (we get more than six inches about every three years). The solidarity (It's hard to be a Pats fan amongst Steelers, Eagles, Redskins, and Ravens fans, though it could be worse--I could be living in Indianapolis).

But you know what I miss most?

The presence of the word "wicked" in my vocabulary. As in, "Those Pats were wicked awesome this year."

I need to go home.