[caption id="attachment_656" align="alignleft" width="300" caption="Autumn in Georgia"]<a href="http://mikerappaport.net/onevoice/wp-content/uploads/2010/12/20101202_16.jpg"><img class="size-medium wp-image-656" title="20101202_16" src="http://mikerappaport.net/onevoice/wp-content/uploads/2010/12/20101202_16-300x199.jpg" alt="" width="300" height="199" /></a>[/caption]

<em>"Michigan seems like a dream to me now ..."</em>

"America" was always one of my favorite Paul Simon songs, from the first time I heard it in the spring of 1968, but my own dreams lay farther west.

<em>"California seems like a dream to me now ..."</em>

It is very odd. For 20 years I lived within an hour of the Pacific Ocean, in a land of (almost) eternal sunshine where the temperature rarely dropped much below 50 degrees. I played golf 12 months a year and I rarely needed more than a windbreaker when I went out walking.

But when I think of places I frequented -- places like the Glendale Galleria, like Empire Lakes Golf Course, like Dodger Stadium -- for many years, I realize these are now far-off places more than 2,200 miles away. They're places I will probably never see again.

Los Angeles now joins the list of places like Reno, Nev., Greeley, Colo., St. Louis, Mo., and other cities -- places where I once lived.

And yes, in a very real way it really does seem like a dream to me now.

My best friend in the world, Mick Curran, remains in California. We have been friends for more than 45 years, and we will certainly stay in touch, but I recognize the very real possibility that we will never stand face to face again. He used to tell me I tried to live two separate personae, as a California native and as a Southern boy. I was born in California in 1949, although I never really lived there until I was 40. And I was raised in Virginia and lived as an adult in both Carolinas.

Living in Georgia now, I feel right.

I feel like I'm home.

And if California seems like a dream to me, it is at least a pleasant one.