I moved to Oxford last October, after living in St. Charles, Missouri for nearly 22 years. I moved despite a few ominous occurrences. I was accepted to Ole Miss a few years ago, and my acceptance letter arrived in a plastic bag, completely shredded. I chose not to attend. While on my way down here to scout for an apartment last fall, my car blew up on I-55. Twice. But, I had already developed friendships, and a friendly, if uncertain, relationship with Oxford and the people who call it home.
In the beginning there were the obvious differences. I call sugary, carbonated beverages “soda”, and I differentiate between the brands. In St. Louis, my favorite gas station is Quick Trip, where they pride themselves on getting the customer in and out of their doors in seconds. Here, going to the gas station is a laid back event. I usually leave after several minutes carrying a plate of delicious food. I’ve seen women on the square wearing enough gold jewelry to shame a pharaoh, and I have seldom seen men so at ease in cotton candy pink polos. I put my groceries in a cart, and am repeatedly told that it’s a buggy. I am not used to people asking me how I am doing on any given day, and then realizing that they are earnestly awaiting a response. I honk at people who forget to use their turn signals, and I like my iced tea straight up.
After settling in and adjusting to my surroundings, the more subtle nuances of this southern town became apparent, and I became comfortable enough to appreciate them. I learned not to be in too much of a hurry, and to listen to the natural storytellers that seem to reside in every corner of Oxford.
One of my favorite exchanges took place right after the New Year. I was working at Square Books when an elderly gentleman wearing a plaid shirt and suspenders approached me.
“Hello there, young lady. How’s your New Year treatin’ you so far?” he asked.
“Fine, and yourself?” I replied.
“Oh, just all right, just all right,” he chuckled, while adjusting his suspenders and perusing the Biography section. “I had decided to go vegetarian in 2006, but I forgot all about it, and I bought me a whole chicken at the grocery store today.”
He then went on to tell me that there was some lingering guilt over his perfunctory poultry purchase, but assured me that the guilt would fade away as he enjoyed that chicken with a side of mashed potatoes.
My younger sister recently graduated from New York University. We started planning the trip months before the event. We talked about where we would eat and shop, where we would get drinks at night, and where we would walk in the mornings. I found myself looking forward to the pace of the city, to weaving my way through the crowded streets of the East Village, and to menu options that made no mention of the term “chicken fried.”
The trip was excellent, everything I thought it would be. We lingered at subway stops to listen to live music, read poetry in Tompkins Square Park, and caught up over falafel sandwiches and pints of Stella. We watched a gospel show rehearsal at St. Mark’s Church in the Bowery, and saw the skyline from Brooklyn at night. But as I watched an obviously intoxicated man getting hauled out of a Manhattan movie theater by two angry members of the NYPD, it hit me. I missed home. Not St. Louis, or St. Charles. I missed Oxford.
The night I got home, I pushed my door open and dropped my luggage. I listened to the silence outside, and was thankful for it. I sat down to play with my dog, and check my voicemail. As I settled back in I heard my good friend Gillian’s voice coming through the speaker.
(giggling) “Hi, Sarah. Its Gillian. Your voicemail message sounds so…so…Northern! Call me back…beeep”
As I hung up the phone thinking, I’m sure it does. But for now, I’ve found a place in the South.
