In 1978, my family moved to Warren, Pa. As a staunch New Englander, I didn’t expect to love Warren, but it was hard not to.

The town was pretty, the people were nice, and it turned out to be a great place to raise children — the best compliment you can pay a small town.

Yet there is still a part of me, a deep-down, not-quite-buried yearning that has me returning to my Yankee roots. Common sense says that I’ve spent 54% of my life in Warren, why the need to go back? The reasons are mostly intangible, but the draw is powerful, and I don’t get the chance to visit as often as I’d like.

This week, I am traveling and writing from the Bay State, Massachusetts, and New Hampshire, the old Granite State. And just as I feel comfy and cozy in my own house, I also feel a sense of belonging here. It never goes away. I am of this place.

The familiarity is in the little things: the Yankee language (with the missing R’s), the architecture, the natives, their humor, the food, Dunkin’ Donuts, and oh yes, even the crazy Massachusetts drivers.

I had a fun conversation with a police officer in Bow, N.H., for which I came close to needing an interpreter. My ears quickly switched over to his local accent, but I did have to concentrate to understand every word. I’d have paid admission just to listen to him yakking about the weather and the pollen count. He was “chahmin.”

Chatting with “Offisah Mahvin” reminded me of an old Boston saying which we laughed about when we lived here: “We pahked ah cah at Hahvid Yahd.” It was actually true … our “apahtment” was just three blocks from the “Yahd.” During my early years in New York, California and Pennsylvania, I acquired the letter R. And I’ve managed to keep it — until yesterday, when somehow, it began to slip away. I ordered a “cuppa chowdah and a lobstah roll for suppah.”

Oh yes, the food. Within minutes of the Atlantic coast, fresh seafood is everywhere. I’ve already delved into scallops and clams, and expect to overdose on haddock and mussels. I hope there’s no toxic level of lobster consumption, because I plan on topping off my tank before I leave the homeland.

“America runs on Dunkin'” is the ad campaign for the doughnut shop on so many corners. There are five Dunkin’s in my daughter’s town of Lexington – Starbucks is outnumbered 5 to 2. Dunkin’ originated on the south shore of Massachusetts 71 years ago, so it’s been around all my coffee guzzling life. Until McDonald’s, the iced coffee that I require with lunch was hard to come by anytime I left Boston. Here, I can always count on Dunkin’. I am also forever loyal to Dunkin’ for the tons of java they have sent to our active duty military for years.

I’ve also promised myself my favorite coffee ice cream before I leave – it’s the third or fourth flavor on every ice cream list in these here parts. Scarce at home, coffee ice cream is everywhere here. And I am here. Somebody has to do it.

And then there’s the New England architecture, a treat for the eyes that stirs my spirit with its traditional colors and history. I love the snug-but-rambling Cape Cod houses alongside the stately pre-revolutionary colonials, complete with widows’ walks on their roofs. I have a weakness for antique inns, taverns and 1700s churches wearing elegant gold gilt signs. Many of these old lovelies seem to have dedicated gardeners and, luckily, I chose the dogwood and lilac time of year. These forever-old buildings all speak to me, “Welcome back, we’re just as we were the last time you visited.”

I guess that coming back here has its own comfort factor. It’s impossible to toss away memories of walking along the wind-whipped Charles River to 8 o’clock classes, summers on Cape Cod beaches, or where I ate my first pizza. I wish I could smell the New England aromas I am used to – the ocean, the mayflowers, and Maine Blueberry pie. COVID took my sniffer, and I hope it has the decency to return it before my next trip back.

Yes, you can go home again. But in truth, it’s just a visit.

As I leave yet another piece of my heart here in the sands of Massachusetts, I need to return home to Pennsylvania where someone is waiting, where I’ve invested my life, my work, my love and friendships. I truly have the best of both worlds.

Marcy O’Brien lives in Warren with her husband, Richard, and Finian, their finicky Maine Coon cat. Marcy can be reached at Moby.32@hotmail.com