"Home is Where You Hang Your Heart - Life in the Real World"
By Robbie Tarpley Raffish

I moved to Delmarva in 2001, several of my friends placed bets as to how long I would, in their words, “make it here.” My best friend, who has known me since we were 15, said I.d never survive three years. On June 13, 2004 – our three year anniversary in Sharptown – she ate those words, as did the rest of my loving and supportive, if not stupefied, buds.

Most people have moments when they look at their lives and say to themselves, “How did I get here?” In this case, when I look back at my move to “the hinterlands,” it makes complete sense to me.

A bit of history, if you will. When I was 11 my family moved from suburban New York City to suburban Los Angeles, trading one enormous, kid-filled development for another, albeit one with better weather and worse traffic.

Moving during the middle of sixth grade was traumatic; I had loved our old neighborhood where I knew every kid, every teacher, every hill and lawn.

I did not, I recall, speak to my dad for about two years. This move was all his fault – we.d moved for his job. Of course it was the job that fed and clothed me, but what is that to a young teen whose life has been roooo-ined, as I recall wailing (often). I was short, dark haired, quick-witted and had a funny accent. My new schoolmates were seemingly all tall, thin, blond, and spoke “Valley.” I was doomed.

I spent the next six years plotting my escape. I graduated high school with a class of 1,100 and took off for college in Northern California expecting to be Nancy Drew (but better dressed.) After a year eating granola, I moved on – this time to the East Coast in search of the life I used to know.

My three years at the University of Delaware were, literally, blissful. Perfect. (Except for that one grade in physics, but we don.t have to go there, do we?) I was East. These people were normal.

Then I graduated and, as with most new college grads, I had no money. I had to go back “home” to LA. I got a (good) job and made it a year. Then I packed my car and headed to Philadelphia -- with no job. (My parents must have thought I was trying to kill them with worry as retribution for moving to LA in the first place. But that is a column for another day.) It took five months to find work – but I did, and it was good. Three years later I got recruited for a great job. The catch: it was in LA. Back I went, this time for four years.

All this ping-ponging around… It was fun and exciting, like trying on different pairs of shoes. Except none of them fit quite right.

Then I found a great pair of shoes: so I married them. I married him; but them sounded better.) And he was East. I got a job in Philadelphia, and back I went again. Mercifully, we stayed put for almost a decade. We built a life, made friends, got a dog, had kids…But even though those shoes fit great, something was still rubbing.

By this time I had been packing and unpacking for close to twenty years. And it dawned on me – I was searching for something without realizing it. I was searching for a home.

That was when a crazy thing happened. My husband.s parents were thinking about selling their house in Sharptown. I had been to Sharptown many times and had come to think of it (and I mean this in the nicest way) as “Brigadoon.” A place where very little changes over time, where people wave at each other when they pass, where traffic means two cars at the four-way stop, and the Carnival is when the fog parts each year to remind folks it is still there.

Actually living there was never a thought in my mind. I was a city kid, remember? New York, LA, Philadelphia … Imagine my own surprise (not to mention that of my husband and in-laws) when I suggested we buy the house and move there. (“Who said that?” I remember thinking.)

And here I am, becoming a Delmarvan. Apparently I am only a “DIT” – Delmarvan in Training for another 47 years or so.
All I can say is that while my parents chose LA and my work chose Philadelphia (which is still my favorite city in the US), my heart knew the truth. Sharptown is home.

It is uncanny, but my kids. school looks just like my own elementary in New City, New York. My neighbors stop me to ask how my cat is (after it wandered into our lives, injured, one day) or admire the new flower beds. People greet me by name when I walk into the town pub. Our mechanic changes the oil for half what I paid in Philadelphia, and then returns my car to my driveway (did you hear that, my city friends) and leaves the bill under the seat. Our town fire chief recently reported to us that there was a possible problem with the water meter and they were checking on it – before they billed us – just to make sure we were not overcharged. And I love this one best: my dog used to run to the back door of the local bank branch, set off the bell in the drive-through, and collect a biscuit.

When I walk through town my heart sings.

As the Beatles said, it was “a long and winding road” that led me to this door. And it has been worth every step. I just wish I had bet my friends in cash.

Robbie Tarpley Raffish is a mother, wife and the president of a.s.a.p.r., a public relations and marketing firm in Salisbury. She would like to thank all the people who have encouraged her to keep writing this column. This one is dedicated to C.B.S. Pay up.