Massachusetts is My Home

Four days away and the truth is known.

I am a homebody.

Sometime I will get a tattoo of the Bay State, preferably a place where people can't see it.

I'm writing this from the middle of Georgia in the woods somewhere.

There's no commuter rail, and I would definitely kill for a large iced coffee, cream and sugar, from Dunkin’ Donuts.

I need to hear the sound of the commuter rail, not birds in the middle of winter.

The place here is beautiful, right on a lake, but it ain't home.

I miss my wife big-time. (OK, that should be huge points for the husband of the year contest, where I'll probably be in last place when she sees all the laundry I'm bringing home.)

The other day a nice woman from another part of the country asked me how I survive winters in New England.

Actually, I've missed the cold. It's winter and I shouldn't be sweating. I should have five or six layers of clothes on.

Living in our area makes one tough. We can handle anything and everything. We know how to drive in snow, ice and high wind. The weather makes us tough and resourceful.

Put us the woods with only a knife and a flashlight, and we would survive. How long do you think California dudes would survive?

It is only when you leave the confines of Massachusetts that you realize how special you are.

In the rest of the United States, people might be nicer, but you are always wondering what they really think. Here you never worry about that. If you cut someone off in Massachusetts, you never have to wonder what they’re thinking.

My driver is moving closer to the Atlanta now, and I am about five hours away from Dunkin’ Donuts and home. Hopefully I’ll cut someone off in traffic, and then I will really feel like I’m home.