Back in Brooklyn, former reporter carries Monroe with her

I’m trudging through the stop-and-go traffic of my neighborhood, my eyes peeled for motorists who consider traffic lanes a mere suggestion and streams of pedestrians who dare you to stop them from crossing the street. Then there are the delivery guys on their zigzagging mopeds and the kids who never look before chasing their softballs into the street.


This is Brooklyn, N.Y., at 2 p.m. To paraphrase Dorothy, I don’t think I’m in Monroe anymore.



As I use my brakes as if playing a bass drum, I am listening to an audio book: “Eventide,” by Kent Haruf, the sequel to “Plainsong.” As the author describes a livestock auction and crafts, the simple dialogue of small town folk who use words, and emotions, with equal economy, I am reminded of what a Monroe friend said about “Plainsong:” “I feel as if these characters just walked out of Ida.”



The dichotomy between what my eyes are seeing and what my ears are hearing is deliciously ironic. How fortunate I am to have experienced these two sides of America: New York City, all kinetic and frenetic, and Monroe, all cozy and mosey.



There are things I miss about Michigan, where I lived for nine years. My husband’s current 33-mile commute often takes him an hour and a half, as traffic makes it impossible to drive over 25 mph. I miss Meijer, with its aisles the size of bowling lanes. Oh, and parking.



There’s nothing worse than coming home late and there being no spot on your block. In New York, garages are a luxury.



I miss drive-through. When I first moved to Monroe I was amazed at how a person never had to get out of her car. There was drive-through banking, dry cleaning - even a beer store. My first thought was, “Wow, are these people lazy.” Now, especially with a 1-year-old who accompanies me on most errands, I think, “Those people are wise.”



I miss the harvest moon and watching the sun set against a field of unharvested corn. I miss cardboard signs at the end of a farmer’s driveway that list eggs, cucumbers, tomatoes. I miss going shopping and not giving a second thought to the fact that I’m wearing old jeans, comfortable shoes and no make-up.



When we first moved I called a Michigan utility company to give them my new address. “Brooklyn?” the woman said, and paused. “Is that good?”



I laughed. It’s my hometown, so all my family is nearby. There may not be drive-through, but everything from sushi for dinner to groceries for the next week can be delivered. There are museums and street fairs and the chance that at least once a day, someone you pass on the street will be speaking a different language or wearing their native dress.



There are sidewalks everywhere, and in 10 minutes I can walk to the library, the post office, the grocery store, several restaurants, the bank and the park. A few weeks ago my husband, daughter and I walked across the Brooklyn Bridge, because it was a beautiful day and what better way to see the New York skyline?



I still look at that skyline and have that feeling you get when you think you’ve lost your wallet. Something is missing, something important.



Today my husband and I walked around ground zero and stared into the canyon that used to hold two monoliths, and still I had to turn away and catch my breath.



It’s the energy of New York that gives me the courage to claim this as myhome again. It’s a feeling that is somewhat ineffable and yet somehow, tangible. Walking down a packed Manhattan sidewalk, you absorb the pulse of the crowd. The massive buildings that surround you make you stand a little taller and put some attitude into your step.



Now when I do join that crowd, I admit that Monroe left a little bit of mosey in me. I look around more than I ever did, observe things, experience the sights and sounds that can be so easily blocked out.



“They came up from the horse barn in the slanted light of early morning,” Mr. Haruf writes. I see the scene, and I see it in Ida. And instead of slamming on my horn when a car cuts me off, I lean back, let my shoulders relax and breathe.