Buffalo, my home town. Name by the French trappers, according to legend, after the river that flows through it. The City of No Illusions, Queen City of the Great Lakes, famous for snow storms, chicken wings and the Buffalo Bills—a team that went to the Super Bowl four times and lost every time.

The place where I was born, attended grade school, learned about the world, came of age and earned two college degrees. The place where I made my first communion and was confirmed. The place where I fell in love, married and raised a child. The place I spent my happiest days and some of my saddest days. It is where my parents lived and are buried, and where three of my seven siblings live now.

It is also a city of uncommon beauty—wide boulevards lined with mature trees that are crimson and gold in fall, elegant public buildings—some designed by the most famous of American architects. Situated on Lake Erie—one of a chain of inland seas—cooled by breezes from Canada, it is circled by a necklace of Olmstead parks—green oases for the working class. Populated by the children of immigrants who came here to find the Promised Land and by the descendants of slaves who found refuge at the last stop on the Underground Railway.

I ran away from its harsh winters twelve years ago looking for endless summer. I found that summer here in Florida.

And now I wonder if I am called back to that place I never stopped loving.

I see a city rich with opportunity, full of the promise of intellectual and spiritual growth. A city where I can attend theatre, concerts, and visit art galleries easily. ( There is a saying in Buffalo that everything in the city is twenty minutes away…and it’s true.)

I can sit in bistros and watch the bustle of the world go by—and eat wonderful food and not have to mortgage the house to do so. I can drive through neighborhoods and admire Arts and Crafts style homes next to Frank Lloyd Wright houses.

I can be soothed by the rhythm of waves rolling into the marina, sit on a sandy beach or drive to the undulating hills south of the city.

And I can be among those I share a history with—who have know me for the six decades of my life—who love me for who I was and am now. People whose memories I share, who loved the same people I loved. I can be among the next generation in our family, and revel in their beauty, intelligence and goodness. I can see our family’s heritage and the future in their eager faces.

Buffalo is aptly named. Buffalo is an earthy name—unpretentious, it isn’t a beautiful sounding word, rather one that jars a little. The same way we are jarred by the real thing—by reality. It is a genuine place filled with people who feel authentic.

My visit home was the first in two years. I became ill last year, and spent almost ten months recovering from surgery, unable to make plans to travel. Then an invitation came to help celebrate an uncle’s ninetieth birthday—an opportunity to gather with our families and be reconnected again. I eagerly jumped at this chance—and put together a trip in a few days.  And the moment I arrived in this city—my city—I felt the joy of arriving home, like returning to  the warmth of a mother’s embrace.

Buffalo—my birthplace. I hear your siren call.