By Jessica Bauer

I grew up with a slice of the good life.

I’m not saying my childhood was all rainbows and sunshine {though it was pretty fantastic}, I literally grew up next to some of the sweetest slices in Arkansas. I may not have been born in Hope like more prominent figures, but I landed in that small southwestern town the same year Bill started politicking.

Known for gigantic watermelons and our 42nd president, Hope is more to me than a tourist attraction map dot. When I think about the word hometown, I’m drawn to the first time I realized what it meant to me. When we were teenagers, our biggest dream was to leave that population sign in the dust. We were desperate to pack down our cars with dorm room bedding, shower shoes, and money from mom. We would light up the highway as soon as one of the few traffic lights turned green.

We were tired of a town that shut down at 9:00 and the same two restaurants every Sunday after church. Although folks on every Walmart aisle knew our names, it was just a tiny chapter in our much bigger books. Boy, were we ready to turn the next page.

On a hot May day in 2002, we threw our red caps into the air and we left. We parted ways for brighter cities that stayed up late, more places to spend our limited cash supply, and hordes of people who didn’t think twice about our back stories. It was different and new and we could be whatever we wanted to be. I didn’t think much about my hometown as I settled in a college life that was brimming with opportunity for change. That is, until I made that first trek home.

Driving south on I-30 from the industrial scenery of central Arkansas, a comfort crept in with each mile. Three lanes slipped back to the simpler two in Benton. I passed Arkadelphia and the trees began towering in the median. I spotted the Prescott exit and caught the first field of cows I’d noticed since I had left home. I remember thinking how funny it was for me to notice cows. Then I saw the brown sign welcoming me to the Birthplace of Bill Clinton.

I was home again. I was headed back to home-cooked meals in the place that raised me. I flew through time and saw myself sitting in the grass wiping watermelon off my shorts, dining on a club sandwich at Cherry’s Soda Fountain, and lining up to perform on the football field. I caught myself in awe of the town I was so ready to escape. You can go home again, and while that lesson first sunk in at a tender 18 years old, it has stayed.

Maybe Bill said it first 24 years ago, but I do believe in a place called Hope. My hometown is an important location for me, but more so, it’s a comfort I didn’t know I had until I left. Maybe the place I’m raising my bunch will provide the same. When my kids finally make their escape, I hope they’re just as eager to follow the winding road home.

Jessica Bauer is a small-town girl raising her bunch deep in the heart of Arkansas. She blogs at Life With the Bauer Bunch (www.thebauerbunch.com) to share stories and lessons she’s learned along the way. Her parenting strategy in a few words: “I figure it out as I go, I keep my fingers crossed, and I exhale when I feel like I get it right.” Stop by and visit her sometime!

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