It Ain't Easy, Livin' Like a Gypsy

Especially when confined by the restraints of money and obligations and responsibilities.

Nope, it ain't easy at all.

And I am indeed a gypsy in my soul. I've mentioned this before. Once, or twice, or a hundred-million times...

I am restless.

I need to be somewhere - other.

My children are in school. My husband has a career. I even have a couple jobs now myself. We have friends here, a house; all the makings of a home. Home is good, right? Home is what we strive for. So why am I so restless?

Perhaps it's as simple as us not having any vacations planned this year.

Perhaps it's because I've lived here longer than I've lived anywhere. I've lived here almost as many years as I lived in my childhood home. After I left that home, I never lasted more than three years in one location. Sometimes it was just a move to a new apartment, but always there was a move, a change, a shift. And always there was travel. When there was no money for an actual vacation there were friends who had migrated to different places, and I was never adverse to crashing on a sofa.

My house has the feel of something unfinished. It's like I've never actually settled in here and made it my own. I don't completely want to. The world is my home; this place I live now is just a house. I have no energy for it. I have no love for it. I wish I did. I give it just about nothing and it gives me just about the same in return. I envy people with beautiful homes - homes that reflect who they are. I have a house. God, I hope my house doesn't reflect who I am. I think I'm afraid that if I actually loved a place I lived, I'd never want to leave it.

And I always want to leave.

I don't want to leave my husband or kids - I don't want anyone, least of all them to think that. Billy Joel said it better than I ever could in his 1973 song, You're My Home:

Well I never had a place that I could call my very own, but that's alright my love 'cause you're my home.

He even refers to "the crazy gypsy in my soul" in that song. Oh, Billy, you know me better than I know myself. Well, Billy Joel circa the mid-seventies/early eighties knew me better than I knew myself. Then he married that Uptown Girl and we were no longer really on the same track anymore. I think he went changin' to try to please her, I don't know. And look how THAT turned out.

But I've digressed.

Yes, my family is my home, and I want them around me, but I want them around me somewhere - other.

I am so over - here.

I just finished reading The Geography of Bliss by Eric Weiner. In this book, he visits ten countries in search of geographical bliss. One of the many conclusions he came to - and one that really resonated with me - was that there is no one perfect place to live, although there might be a perfect place for any given individual to live. Some people and places click - they fit. Some people fit in different places at different times. I believe that is me. When I think of the places I'm happiest, I'm almost certain I wouldn't be happy there if I stayed a decade or so. Maybe I use places up, I don't know.

I do know that I am restless.

I laughed right out loud when Mr. Weiner stated:

As any poet (or blogger) knows, misery expressed is misery reduced.

Indeed. And I am not miserable. Now that the sun is back and I'm on a more positive job track, I'm downright content, if not full-on happy.

No, I am not miserable.

But I am restless.

Perhaps restlessness expressed is restlessness reduced.

I'll let you know.

Time for the Good Stuff

So I asked my daughter to make the salad last night. Surprisingly, she happily complied. She likes feeling useful in the kitchen, I should use that to my advantage more often... Anyway. She's chopping the romaine, then calls to me in the next room, "I think I'm done."

"You THINK you're done? Are you done or not?"

"Well, I chopped all the good part and I'm down to the part they send to the school cafeteria to put in the kids' lunches."

Oh dear.

Time to stop chopping.

I wasn't cooking or (you may or may not have noticed - my poor self esteem forbids me from speculating) on the computer, because I've been making myself busy. This holiday funk I'd been experiencing needed to be broken through. I don't have much money, but I have two sticks and some string. For those who have never lived with me, that means I've been in a full on knitting frenzy for a couple days. That tends to happen this time of year. I'm missing you, my internet friends, of course, but I need to jump into the yarn stash with both feet for a couple more days. Give or take.

Time to knit.

Yesterday? While my daughter was making the salad, and I was knitting my husband walked through the door with a HUGE poinsettia for me. Now the last time this man brought me flowers was - I think it was when I told him I was pregnant with Liv. You may remember that Liv celebrated her twelfth birthday a week or two ago. So, yeah. Not a big flowers guy. And he not only brought me flowers, he brought me HUGE, BEAUTIFUL flowers! They fill the whole room, they feel festive, they - they made me want to get off the couch and make things nice to match them. Then he suggested we open a bottle of wine to go with dinner.

Time to be grateful.

My screen saver says, "Never let that which matters the most give way to that which matters the least."

Time to reflect on what matters.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

There are people who fear change and people who embrace it. I have always tended to be more of a hugger - more of an embracer of change - but the older I get the more I find I want some things - not all things, mind you, but some things to stay the same. My last post was a testament to that.

My sister - there's a gal who fears change. No - fear is not the right word, and it would make her very angry to see me use it in reference to her and she can still kick my ass - she rejects change. Her hairstyle has changed twice since high school. She graduated in 1982. And neither of those changes were dramatic, either. She likes it this way and this is the way it is and if you don't like it you can suck it. She wears uniforms. Not official uniforms, just - she finds a style that she likes and that works for her and she wears it. All the time. The uniforms have gone through several changes. There were the shiny satin shirts and black pants. Then there was the ill-advised tuxedo shirts and gym shorts. Then there were T-shirts with over-sized animal prints. Currently she sports exercise tops and scrub bottoms. Cut off or not, depending upon the season. She marches to her own drummer, for sure, but said drummer can only play one cadence at a time.

I don't dig every fashion choice she makes, but I do dig her attitude. And I'm also a little jealous of the fact that she has a definite style. This is something that is not true of me. I try to be a chameleon and generally fail miserably.

I didn't set out to talk about clothes, though, believe it or not. I set out to talk about furniture. Last weekend we did some major moving and shaking around here. My craft room is gone. Gone, ya'll. In the next couple weeks, I expect to have a wall of shelves in what is currently Tom's unused woodshop. The kids have moved into my former craft room and made it a dedicated practice space for their band. This moved the drum kit and all of the amps and ugly wires and cords out of my front room and into the band room in the basement. This has been a good change! My front room is prettier, the kids practice more because they feel freer to make mistakes in the basement than they did in the front room - it's all good. Except the whole craft room thing, but that'll work out. Don't cry for me, fellow crafters.

So change - particularly change that brings almost instant notable improvement - leaves one wanting more, no? Improvements in one room draw attention to shortcomings in another. My perfectly servicable dining table became just a big ole' pile of flaws on four legs. Legs which have been chewed on by the puppy. And our puppy is 9 1/2. Years, not weeks. 9 1/2 weeks is something different entirely. So, yeah, a new dining set would definitely spruce things up.

The folks at CSN stores had contacted me a week or so ago to ask if I wanted to host a giveaway (And I said hell yes! So watch this space!) so I decided to check their dining room furniture first. Here's the dilemma. I liked two. A lot. This one is very similar to the one I currently have, but with a top that has not been the starting point for countless kids' art projects and legs which have not been used as canine teething toys. I know if I got this table or one like it it would look good in my kitchen. It's not a change so much as an upgrade.

Then I saw this. I love this set. But it is very different from what I currently have. It's more of a gamble. Will it look good in my space? Or will I get it and decide I need new curtains? And maybe a new baker's rack... You see where I'm going? It's a change, and it might (but might not...) dictate more changes that in turn might dictate even MORE changes... Change can have a snowball effect, no doubt.

Do I want to play it safe or take a risk?

When do you take risks and when do you play it safe?

Ya Feelin' Lucky, Punk?

Well, I'm not.

I'm feeling most unlucky indeed.

But it's never really about luck, is it? That's what the lucky ones say, anyway. They say it's all about choices.

My argument is that I didn't choose most of my circumstances. And that's true, for the most part. But I do choose how I'm going to respond to those circumstances. A pertinent and recent example:

Yesterday a friend posted pictures of us from the mid-80's on Facebook. I was reminded under no uncertain terms - there it was - that I had a rockin' bod in my mid-20's. It bummed me right the frick out. How does one go from that to this? Well, there was a little bit of bad luck. I have a slow metabolism. I have hypothyroidism. I have Hashimoto's. I didn't choose any of those things. Bad luck. BUT! When I saw those pics, my immediate reaction to the sense of failure they sparked was to find comfort in a bowl of hot fudge. With or without ice and or whipped cream. And THAT, my friends, is a choice. (No, I didn't do it. But only because there wasn't any in the house and I was too lazy to go out and get any. Sometimes laziness is an asset.) When I showed the pics to Tom, by the way, his only response was: "Your hair looked dumb." I love this man so. much.

So - to recap - current state of the body is a result of a combination of bad luck and bad choices. Eliminate ONE of those things and it would probably be not as bad as it is, but not as good as it was. It can't all be attributed to one or the other.

Remember in "What's Eating Gilbert Grape?" when Johnny Depp takes Juliette Lewis to meet his morbidly obese mom and his mom apologizes for her appearance, with tears brewing behind her eyes, "I wasn't always like this..." and Juliette Lewis answers, without missing a beat, "Well I wasn't always like this, either." We all change. I love that moment. I love Johnny Depp....

Dang. I appear to have once again digressed...

Luck. Choices.

Ahem.

I am dealing with some other stuff, too, which I'm not quite ready to talk about here. It FEELS like a lot of bad luck. I KNOW that to the outside observer it would LOOK like a lot of bad choices. I'm still trying to sort that out. Trying to determine how different choices might yet turn it around. No luck so far - I'll keep you posted.

I know that I'm lucky in many ways. I have a roof over my head. Said roof is in a rapidly deteriorating neighborhood. Said roof is over a house that was built fast 14 years ago and is falling apart before our eyes. Said house is always a mess and I can't keep up with it. Some bad luck. Some bad choices. But ultimately the great good luck of having a home.

I have a family. Said family doesn't have much time for me, they're all busy chasing their own lives and making their own bad choices (and an occasional good one) regarding their own personal circumstances. Said family's good choices are a reflection on them and their bad choices are a reflection on me. Said family is always a mess and I can't keep up with it. Some bad luck. Some bad choices. But ultimately the great good luck of having a family.

I have friends. Said friends are mostly kept up with via the computer - even the ones who actually live close by, of which there are not too darn many. Said friends are rarely available for a cup of coffee or a glass of wine, but they're almost always available with a friendly ear (er, um, eye...) and a lot of support. A little bad luck. A couple bad choices. But ultimately the great good luck of having friends.

I could go on - but you get the general gist. You're pretty bright like that. Luck and choices. Our reality is a combination of the two.

Sorry I was a bummer today. But it should improve. The sun is shining and it's a beautiful day here. How lucky.

Make good choices!

Benign Neglect

Tom and I are not so much good with the whole landscaping thing. We don't know what to do, and on the rare occasions when we do get a glimmer of an idea, we don't know how to do it. Our lawn is a mess. That's what you'd think if you drove by my house. That's what you'd think if you were trying to sell the house next door (sorry, neighbor). But guess what? I met our neighbors lawn service guy while I was out getting the mail today. He started with a spiel, then kicked at my (way too long by suburban standards) grass and said, "Your lawn is actually surprisingly healthy." I said something about that being because we let it get so dang long and to my immense surprise he said, "That's probably it. Most people cut theirs way too often and keep it way too short." Who knew? We've been practicing benign neglect on our lawn.

That's a term I hadn't thought about in a while.

When I was in grad school, I had to do some observations in various NICUs (Neonatal Intensive Care Units). As a student observer, it was made very clear that I was authorized to observe and ask questions, but I was to have no actual contact with the babies and I was not to interfere or intervene in any way. Some NICU's had a separate observation room, but in most I was allowed to be on the floor.

On one particular night there was a baby that just wouldn't stop crying. It was a strong newborn cry, and it was relentless. Nobody made any effort to comfort him. There were several nurses on the floor doing paperwork or casually checking on other babies. Why was no-one comforting this child? After a few moments, my agitation must have become evident. A nurse approached me and nodded towards the crying infant. "It's bugging you, huh?" I nodded. "It's called benign neglect. We're very aware of him, I assure you, and we know exactly how long he's been crying." At this point, another nurse came over and finally comforted the little guy. He started to calm relatively quickly. "He was quite premature and his lungs are working hard to develop. Crying is great exercise for his little underdeveloped lungs. We don't let him cry TOO long, but we do let him cry. We're happy when he cries. Did you notice how strong that cry was?" I nodded again. She continued, pride evident in her voice, "It wasn't that strong a couple days ago. His parents are going to be really pleased. They can't stand to not comfort him when he fusses, so we're all glad when he chooses to wail like that when they're gone." By the time our conversation was over, he was quiet and seemed comfortable.

And I'd learned a valuable lesson.

Sometimes the best thing to do - and often the HARDEST thing to do - is nothing.

I've slowly, slowly learned (am slowly, slowly learning) this lesson with my own kids. Sometimes my intervention causes more harm than good. Sometimes I need to step back and let them make their own mistakes - even if it means they're going to end up crying. Sometimes a little neglect is the kindest thing.

Now if someone could find a way to assure me that neglecting exercise was in some way benign...

A Road Trip With Mrs. Chicken

It was a dark and stormy night. (Ok, it was really more misty than stormy. I'm trying to set a mood here. It's called poetic license. Roll with it.) I was driving alone through the mountains of West Virginia en route from my home in Central Ohio to my Home in Western Pennsylvania. How did I come to be on this dark and stormy road alone in the middle of the night, you ask? (It was more like the beginning of the evening. But with the late time change this year, it felt quite a lot like the middle of the night. Would you be as intrigued if I'd said, 'just after rush hour? I thought not.)

It was simple, really. The kids had a four day weekend, and I had a hankering to go Home and visit with my family and a few friends. We'd leave Wednesday night and come home Saturday. That way Tom would get a little alone time after work for a couple days, which can be very relaxing, but wouldn't have the full weekend alone which can get awful lonesome. It was win win. Except I forgot we had an appointment Wednesday night. (An appointment with a bottle of wine and some fine tapas. Wednesday night was out anniversary, remember). So, ok, no problem, we'd leave Thursday morning. Except the reason the girls had Thursday off was that it was parent teacher conference day and I had an afternoon conference scheduled. Ok, we'd leave right after the conference. That would work. Except I forgot that Liv has drum lessons Thursday night. And she didn't want to miss her lesson. "Why do we have to go to Memaw and Pepaw's anyway?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. No zombies." I don't know why I said that. (Probably a reference to 'Zombieland'. The characters didn't refer to each other by name, just by cities. The main character went by 'Columbus Ohio' which is home. So we sort of dug that. Even though it was destroyed. I don't think that requires a spoiler alert. It IS a movie about a zombie apocalypse. When 'apocalypse' is part of the explanation, you sort of expect a little destruction. It's always neat when home gets a mention. Springsteen mentioned Home in 'The River'. It wasn't a flattering reference, but I held it near my heart anyway. It's like these famous important people know a little piece of you when they mention places and things you hold dear. I just read 'A Walk in the Woods' and every time Bill Bryson mentioned a State or National Park I'd been too, I felt like we were sharing the adventure. Which we totally weren't. Ohmigod - how am I ever gonna get you back to my story?)

"No zombies!" Tom exclaimed. "You practically drive right through Monroeville between here and there! You go through zombie mecca, zombie homeland, zombie ground zero." (I don't really drive through Monroeville. I do pass an exit for Pittsburgh, though. Oh, and for anyone not with me at this point, Monroeville, a suburb of Pittsburgh, is the setting for 'Dawn of the Dead', the seminal and arguably definitive zombie movie.)

"I don't want to go." replied one or both of the kids. This decision may or may not have had to do with zombies.

"They can stay with me." Tom threw out casually.

"Kthnkxbye!" I said, running up the stairs to pack before he had a chance to change his mind. Two nights and one full day to live in my parents house and play with my friends without worrying about stopping arguments or anything else involved in the care and keeping of a teen and a tween? Yes, please.

So I was set to leave Thursday afternoon. Mom calls Thursday morning and says, "We're really looking forward to seeing you, but I wanted you to know that they're calling for snow." Snow? Really? It's the middle of October! I'm not ready for snow - I am not ready to entertain even the possibility of snow. Nope. Lalala, I can't hear you, no snow. But she'd planted a wee tiny seed of worry.

Thursday afternoon, Tom and I attended the parent teacher conference. When we came out, my car gave us a little trouble about starting. Tom says to me (he says), "Your battery is shot".

"Does that mean I can't go?" (that seed of worry was sprouting fast)

"That means you need a new battery and you're lucky we figured it out now instead of halfway through your trip."

"Ok." But I didn't feel particularly lucky, because I was now off schedule by about an hour and a half which was supposed to be the amount of time I would be able to bargain shop on the way Home. I love bargain shopping. Bargain shopping sans kids? Well, at the risk of repeating myself: yes, please. So that was denied. Bummer. But I was on my way. Well, sort of. When the battery was replaced, my stereo went offline. To get it back involved finding a code and, oh, for Pete's sake, if I wasted any more time I was gonna have to give up dinner as well as shopping. "I'll be fine without a stereo - I need to go."

"You'll go nuts alone in the car with no stereo for almost 5 hours."

"No I won't. The voices keep me company."

So off I set, almost two hours later than planned, with nothing but the sounds of the road (and, of course, the aforementioned voices) to keep me company.

The first leg of the trip was gorgeous. Not a lot rivals the beauty of driving through the mountains during peak foliage season. I felt sort of - blessed. Like this amazing display was just for me. Don't burst my bubble on that one, it wouldn't be nice. As the sun began to set in the rear view mirror, though, things took a turn for the spooky. It's no accident that Halloween is celebrated in Autumn. Autumn days are beautiful. Autumn nights are eerie.

So I'm singing to myself - trying to keep my thoughts occupied by things other than the general gloominess of the night - when I smell cigarette smoke. I don't smoke. Tom doesn't smoke. No-one has ever smoked in my car. (Well, that may or may not be true. I'm not the original owner. But I've had it a couple years. You'd think any residual odors in the upholstery or carpeting would've manifested before now.) My senses are now on red alert. And I smell a fart. Now I'm alone in the car. And I haven't farted. I'd tell you if I had. I'm not shy. It's a very natural thing. Everyone farts. Except I hadn't. And I was the only one in the car.

I'm deep in the mountains now, it's dark, it's rainy, it's spooky. There isn't any snow, but the 'Bridge Freezes Before Road Surface' signs are being taken seriously because I'd encountered a little slush. The wind is blowing and the fog is creeping in more quickly than slowly, almost instantly obscuring my vision. Leaves are blowing in the wind and being illuminated by my headlights like unpredictable little specters. And there's an apparition smoking and farting in my back seat. I DO believe in spooks, I do, I do, I do, I DO believe in spooks...

Two small lights on the road ahead. Not headlights. Eyes. Then, before I had time to process this latest development, an eighteen wheeler, coming out of nowhere - coming out of a side street I didn't even know was there. So this is how it ends. All this spooky, eerie stuff going on, and I'm gonna be taken out 'Maximum Impact' style. And without the cool AC/DC soundtrack.

The truck went on it's way. The deer in the road was avoided. The fog dissipated as my altitude decreased. The odors cleared. Home was in sight. That's where I went to High School. That's the church where Daddy and I got married. That's where I went to kindergarten. It's an office building, now. All those landmarks I point out to my family every time we make this trip. Except this time I'm alone, so there's no one to say, "I know, Mom, gawd, you tell us every time!"

I remarked on all of the landmarks out loud, anyway. It was good to be Home.

Who Says You Can't Go Home?

My mother is an excellent attentive interesting hostess.

I just spent a long weekend in my parents tiny home with my own family and my aunt. My sister and her family and various cousins and their significant others streamed in and out pretty regularly.

My mother feels compelled to take care of all of our - their - needs, whether they be real or imagined.

She's always done this with me. I always assumed it was some sort of sweet, although somewhat misguided, maternal thing. She likes taking care of me and I'm - what you might like to call - a little bit on the lazy side. I'm very good at being taken care of. We're a good fit.

When I was in high school and had mono (Which went undiagnosed until I was way past the stage of contagion because she insisted I was just burning the candle at both ends. Until my throat swelled shut and I couldn't swallow my own spittle. Then she felt pretty bad.) and I was resting on the couch as per doctors orders. As we had nothing as fancy as a remote control, I would just say I wanted to watch something else and she would come out from the kitchen to change the channel for me. On the TV that was fully three steps away from me. Sometimes when Tom watches South Park, Cartman and his mom make me have flashbacks. I'm not proud of that, hon, but there it is. Now would someone please bring me some Cheesy Poofs?

But I digress.

Please try not to have a heart attack and die from the shock.

So this weekend when there were so many of us in the house I noticed that it's not just me. She feels the need to take care of everyone. Sometimes it's sweet. Sometimes it's downright intrusive. Always it's well intentioned.

She packs a lunch for my unmarried cousin every day.

She had several reunions this summer which would not have been able to occur without her. She takes on too much because she fears that if she left it to anyone else it wouldn't be done right. What an awesome responsibility her life must be.

A mundane and all too typical example:

I like to read. My husband, my father, my aunt and my daughters like to read as well. My mother? Not so much. So when one of us is reading (and at least ONE of us is almost ALWAYS reading) she becomes very concerned about our comfort.

"Here, you don't have enough light."

"I do. I have enough light. I'm fine."

"Well, let me just..." at this point she leans across whoever is reading and either turns the nearest light on or turns it up a notch. "There. That's better, right?"

"I'm fine."

"Did you know that chair reclines?"

"I'm fine."

"Here." She reaches down and pops up the foot rest on the recliner. "There you go."

"Ok. Thanks. I'm fine."

"Did you want something to drink?"

"No thanks, I'm fine."

"I have Diet Coke. You like Diet Coke, right?"

"Yes."

"I'll get you one."

"Not now, thanks."

"It's right there in the fridge if you change your mind. Did you want a sandwich? I have lunchmeat. Ham and roast beef. And that good Colby cheese you like."

At this point bookmarks are usually employed and sighs are rendered.

"Oh, you're not going to read anymore?"

She cannot and will not sit down until she is certain that everyone's every possible need has been met.

When visitors come, she can't sit and chat until everyone has a beverage and perhaps a piece of cake. It doesn't really matter what they answer when she asks if they'd like a piece. They'll be getting one.

This might all be seen as nice and or sweet, but then she turns around and bitches about it. You know, "If I don't do it, it doesn't get done. I'm so tired, but there's just always so much work."

There is no winning there.

Now I'm on my way home, where I find myself in a similar situation. If I don't do it, it doesn't get done.

A lot of stuff doesn't get done.

I'm cool with that.

Of Houses and Homes

I used to ask my students to close their eyes and imagine a place that they walked into - perhaps for the first time - and instantly felt at home. The vast majority of them would name their parents house or their grandparents house, sometimes a beloved oft-visited vacation home - rarely did they mention someplace that was shiny and new.

Now I've heard that:

Home is where the heart is.

Home is where you hang your hat.

Home is just another word for you.

I get all of that. I do. But I think there's more to it.

An example: My favorite aunt, Aunt Jennie, lived in the same suburban split level all my life. Growing up they lived about five hours away from us and I just lived for those visits to her home. I loved it there. Looking back, I couldn't tell you why. It's nothing I can put my finger on. It was just a place that made me happy. A place where people who made me happy lived.

When I was in grad school I lived much closer to her than I did to my own mom - about an hour away. I went to her house almost every weekend to study because I would get distracted in my apartment, but I could concentrate at her house. Plus she cooked for me. Once when I was sick, I bundled myself up and drove my sick self up to her house because any difficulty the ride imposed upon me would be more than balanced out by the TLC I would receive once I got there. It was not a bad decision.

A few years ago my cousin, her son, bought a beautiful HUGE house. As she was getting on in years and recently widowed, he built a wing on his house for her. It is beautiful and has about as much square footage as her whole house did. It was an amazingly loving gesture. The last time I visited her in the old place was nice - bittersweet, of course - but I was happy for her. By all of the things we measure standards by, she was trading up. Bigger, newer - you know what society values as well as I do. She was going to be livin' large.

So it took me by surprise when, as we were all packed up and ready to leave - hugs all around - I just couldn't walk out the door. I couldn't walk out that door knowing it was the last time. I was overwhelmed. Tom and the girls started packing up the car and I just sat on the steps - bewildered - overwhelmingly sad and totally surprised by my own emotions. Aunt Jennie sat down next to me. I've probably got a good 6 or 7 inches on her, but she sat down next to me and put her arm around me. I instinctively buried my head in her shoulder and sobbed. I felt guilty even as I was doing it. This was HER home. She shouldn't have been comforting me, I should have been comforting her. She didn't speak, except to say, "I know, Tam, it's ok. I know." I didn't speak at all. I didn't have any words.

I had never lived there, but it was home. And I'd never see it again.

Tom used to get annoyed - well, probably more hurt than annoyed - with me when I referred to going to my parents house as going home. But it is. My parents house is small and humble - nothing too special, certainly not in comparison to the McMansions springing up all over the place. But it makes me feel so recharged when I spend some time there - even just a very little bit of time. Recharged. Grounded. Loved. Home.

My mother always referred to her mother's house as home. "Going up home".

My grandmother referred to her mother's house as home - long after her mother had passed away, when she asked one of us to drive her to their town to visit relatives she would say, "Can you drive me down home sometime this weekend?" So even without her mother, that place was still home.

Dad's was always "The Homestead". Now the homestead conjures up images of a big sprawling ranch to me. If it does the same for you, erase that image right now. Dad's homestead - where his parents raised nine children - was a two bedroom house set up on a small hill. That's right. Nine children. Two bedrooms. The parents had a room, the girls shared a room, and the boys slept in the attic. This sounds like a nightmare to me! It sounds like home to Dad.

Because home is more than a house - and I think it's also more than the people who inhabit the house. I still love my Aunt Jennie. I still love visiting her and spending time with her in her big ole sprawling house. But it's not home.

I think it's perhaps a complicated equation involving a place and people and perhaps even time. Home has a feel and a smell and a sound. Home is a multi-sensory experience. Home cannot be forced or manufactured; home just needs to be.

Maybe I'm overthinking it (what? me? no!).

It is what it is and you know it when you feel it. What feels like home to you?