Home is where feelings reside.

I do consider Lincoln my home.  But my "home home" is in Grand Island.  At my parents house.  It's a feeling I get when I drive home on the interstate and drive past the mexican market, past the city courthouse, past Lions park, shaking my head at the homeowners who have couches on their porch and kids playing in the gutter.  About 5 or so "nice" streets up resides the brick ranch that brings me back to the feeling of being 16 again and that my parents are going to take care of me for the time that I am there. 

The comforts of home are many.  For me it is the squishy carpet on my feet, the dogs greeting barking at the door, the mailman putting the mail in the slot, Dad's leather lazy boy, the remote controls on the ceiling fans, passing the spot where I remember my last big bear hug from my Dad, watching Julia play the piano that my Mom wants to get rid of, then there's the pink porcelin bathroom.  Taking a shower in that lovely pink porcelin tub while sitting down might be as equal to receiving a spa treatment.  Heavenly. 

There are many things I could continue on about, but what makes a home home to me is the feeling of being invincible and utterly loved.  Feeling that no matter what I do, I am loved by all things tangible and humanly whole that exist in that brick ranch.  My Mom and Dad made a lovely house for us to grow up in and my Mom continues to make it a special place, a haven.  I always look forward to going home and always wish for one more day there.    


We were home last weekend and did a little putt putt.  Well, Henry and I did and Julia just threw the ball.