I broke my toe. Or jammed it. It doesn’t matter. She’s taped to her big sister for stability. Just to clarify, it doesn’t matter if it’s broken or jammed, but the fact that the injury occurred matters a lot. Kid me had a temper tantrum all week. I was going camping, and my car had been packed for days. And by camping, I mean sleeping in a tent close to the trail so I could hike. I had 40 miles mapped out and was excited to finish August strong. Tuesday, I was doing yoga before work, and here we are. Yoga. Ridiculous.

Wednesday, I stubbornly wedged my taped foot into a hiking boot and walked around the neighborhood. Within a mile, my right hip hurt. Forty miles of this and I would be crippled. I probably shouldn’t go. I would wait a day and see.

Thursday night, I finally accepted the truth. Now what? Time at home would be good, I told myself. I had been gone for the last four weekends. Kid me pouted as I unloaded the car. Weekends are busy and I didn’t know when I would be able to camp again. I felt defeated. I was scrolling through my pictures from the last few trips and thought about the upcoming Fair.

The Sandwich Fair is a big deal and understanding this fact is important to juggling the demands of Fair week. Businesses close, patients don’t schedule or cancel with short notice and kids play hooky. Flexibility is key. Residents are busy showing their cattle and produce. There’s friendly competition for the best pie, the sweetest preserves and the crunchiest pickles. There are ribbons for sewing, knitting and tatting. There are ribbons for old license plates, wasp’s nests and Star Wars Pez dispensers. There are ribbons for everything imaginable. People gather and celebrate. This is the last week of summer in this little town and the residents wring every single drop of fun from it. I have participated as a vendor for years. Last year I helped organize an event for a life-long resident lost to Covid, but mostly I have been an observer. Each year I am a little more involved and, at the end of the week, a bit more exhausted yet more satisfied.

Wait. There are ribbons for photographs.

On a whim, I decided to enter some photos in the Fair. It gave me an excuse to immerse myself in my adventures, to print the images and maybe to share my love for Nature in a new way. Also, it might be fun. Sorting through the images, titling and fitting them into categories was time-consuming. Before I knew it, just like that, Saturday was gone. I wouldn’t have had time to do this if I had gone hiking.

I have an image of the water tower I took while on lockdown. I don’t know why I like it, but I do. There wasn’t a category for the image; it had to be forced by choosing “Other.” I titled it HOME without a thought. HOME. I looked at what I had written. Home? I stared. I counted the years that I have lived here. Sixteen is my best estimation. Sixteen years. I live and work here. Most of my patients are from here. I have sent countless sympathy cards and baby gifts too. My kids went to school here. Yet, in my mind, I’ve always been an outsider. That’s a category I put myself in. All the image sorting and categorizing might have lent a new perspective. Sandwich isn’t my hometown, but it is my HOME. It’s a category that fits. I never thought I would stay here, but I did and am.

Sandwich is my home. Everything looks a little different from this perspective.

I’m almost glad I stayed home this weekend.