Y’all know by now how stuck I am on my Deep South roots. Enough to name my daughters Louisiana, for the place I’ll always call home, and Evangeline, for Longfellow’s Cajun heroine. I never take off my silver bracelet engraved, “Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans?” Just mention it and I hear Louis Armstrong on trumpet and smell the beginnings of a slow-cooked roux. But I also think a lot about the Hudson River town where I live now.

On a clear day you can see the Manhattan skyline 25 miles downriver. But our backyard deer, old stone library and community flower show—every entry gets a ribbon—make me feel far from the big city. Although you might imagine you’re in Paris when you bite into a pastry at our little French bakery where Evie always gets a Mont Blanc. Her accent’s not bad, either. (Must be the Cajun French in her from my mama’s side.) Lulu makes sure we don’t miss the “Halfway to St. Pat’s Day” party at O’Donoghue’s. (That’s the Irish in her from my daddy’s side!) The Fourth of July fireworks and parade are the best.

Commuting to work, I drive to the bus, take it over the Tappan Zee Bridge and hop a train into the city. One morning Reverend Al from the car repair noticed I’d left my lights on. Preachers are no good at breaking into cars, so he was there to jumpstart me at the end of the day. Running for the bus another morning, my earring flew off. “Something wrong, Colleen?” Mr. Keith called from outside his funeral home. We found the earring but not the tiny back that kept it on. My funeral director friend took the back off his tie tack, which worked fine. Julio the bus driver waited for me!