Feels like home

The last few weeks, Beth at Hang On, Honey has been writing about her parents moving from her childhood home and what home really means. It really got me thinking about my own perception of home.

I spent the first nine years or so in a two-story three bedroom, one bathroom house in the country.  It had a huge lot and was surrounded by farm fields.  We had lots of cats  --- outside ones, of course, because my brother was allergic.  We had a few dogs too, but they didn't last long in the country.  Something about chasing cars.  I have plenty of memories of that house, but my clearer memories are of our second house.

After my grandfather passed away in 1990, my family moved into his house in town in 1991.  And I use the term "town" very lightly.  There were only 100 people there, so we were still basically in the country.  But my friends lived a lot closer now.  I also had a bigger bedroom there. At one point, I got to move to the basement, wallpaper my room with 'N Sync posters, and have my own half bath.  It was pretty awesome.  That house is where we had our first inside dog, Mac, and where we brought home our doberman, Sable.  It's the house where I hosted a huge 13-girl slumber party in 7th grade and a SuperBowl party in high school.

My parents moved out of that house in 2004.  They now live in a much bigger town.  It's exponentially bigger than our former community.  It's a city.  I've never lived in that house, but I still consider it to be home.  Why?  Because that's where my parents and brother live.  It's filled with familiar things from our past homes.  My mom still makes kringla and lefse every Thanksgiving and Christmas, and we still open our "stockings" on Christmas Eve.

Home really isn't about the place it all, it's about who's in it and how it feels.