No intended grocery shopping trip being avoided today, just had an urge to babble-write.
Since we have been married, we have lived in 5 different houses. We would have stayed in the last house if my husband’s promotion didn’t bring us to Atlanta.
My parents? I’m not going to start counting how many times they have moved, but every time I would visit, I felt like I was home. I feel at home in the place my mom has lived the longest–my dad’s presence is felt–but I have never lived there….just visited.
I will never forget our shock when my maternal grandma and grandpa moved in the late 1970’s from the only house known to my siblings and me.
Then there was that day…
The day after my brother’s funeral–the day before my grandma’s funeral—my extended family stood in my grandma’s and grandpa’s empty house, and tears formed in my eyes. Even though Christmas gatherings for kids at their house was pure torture, it’s what I grew up with and it was gone. Poof.
So what makes a house a home? Love.
All my kids have voiced their wishes to return to the Seattle area. One, our daughter, did that 7 1/2 years ago and has only been back for visits. She lived with us in Georgia for 2 1/2 years….does she feel at home when she returns?
Our youngest has moved back in and has become the new vampire in the basement. Does he feel at home?
Our oldest stayed overnight, Christmas Eve, on an air mattress in his brother’s old room because his old room had been filled with exercise equipment. Did he feel at home?
I think my husband and I are at a crossroads. We have that little house his dad built in Missouri that we have come to love, but we drag our feet and create many excuses to avoid setting a definite move date.
Will we feel at home there?
Are you….dear husband….thinking you can sell the house and buy some hunting land and stay right here in Georgia? Huh? Huh?
To me a house is just a house. A home is where we choose to hang our hats and share our love. (ooooo….how mushy, right?)