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ll roads lead to home as they say. Technically, Interstate 20 does lead to the last place I called home, Tuscaloosa, Ala. Before that, I used Alabama Highway 80 to get to my parents house, and it took hundreds of miles of roads to move their when I was a child.

And those roads that lead to home are two-way streets. Sometimes you make the trek home, and sometimes home makes the trip to you.

My mom hasn’t yet seen what my apartment looks like fully decorated or where I work or any other part of the new place I call home.

This past weekend—well technically the Sunday and Monday I had off—she finally got the chance.

Every time I’d see something cool around town while covering an event or wandering around on a weekend, I’d add it to my mental list of things to show her when came.

I have a ranking of my favorite houses in town, and she got the grand tour of that list, as she did the National Historical Military Park and downtown, though admittedly I’m more knowledgeable about certain parts of that list than others.

There’s just something about getting to share a new place—a place you see everyday—to someone with fresh eyes, especially someone you love. Even though I’ve only been here for a short time, showing her around made me realize how used to Washington Street I have become even within a few weeks.

I get my love of historical architecture from her, so obviously she loved downtown as much as I do. I had really talked it up, so I’m glad to report that it didn’t disappoint. Nor did any of the restaurants we visited for that matter.

And when Mom visits, that not only means I don’t have to pay for my own meal—which gets old quickly (for the high school seniors out there)—I get food for the next week. Honestly, it’s more like food for the next half a month.

She has an unbelievable stash of Tupperware, which I know isn’t unique to her—I’m pretty sure moms are required to have it—but the farther I’ve moved from home, the more impressive the collection has gotten.

Freshman year of college, I got meals for about a week with the understanding that I had to share it with my roommates because I had a meal plan. Now, I get two weeks’ worth of spaghetti. Mostly because she knows that I am not ever going to be a cook. She’s given up on that dream. Well, we both have really.

It doesn’t get much better than food and family—or when home comes to you.

 

Sarah Mahan is a staff reporter with The Vicksburg Post. You can reach her by email at sarah.mahan@vicksburgpost.com.