Having been in New England for ten of the past sixteen months, I’ve thought a lot about home.
With respect to Robert Frost, home is the place where they’re glad to take me in.
Sally, Jenna, and Julie are home to me, wherever they are.
Home is sleeping in my bed with my wife.
Home is our cat, Caesar, loving me as if I’d never been gone.
Home is grilling salmon on our patio. Home is our bright red Japanese Maple tree.
Home is a hug from the lady at the dry cleaners who missed me. Home is friends at Kathwood Baptist Church welcoming me back.
Home is my Grandson Lake showing up at our house at 6:45 a.m. wanting blueberry muffins on Thursday morning.
Home is my shower, my pillow, and my favorite coffee mug. Home is iced tea with mint freshly picked from our garden. Home is my bookshelves with my books with my favorite passages underlined. Home is being surrounded by memorabilia from Charleston, Cooperstown, Scotland, Italy, Turkey, Kenya, and Romania.
Home, for me, are tigers, tigers everywhere.
Home is driving on familiar roads and walking on familiar sidewalks.
Home is my Dad’s picture on the wall and my Mother’s baking sheets (which we still use to make chocolate chip cookies) in our kitchen cabinet.
Home is my back porch where I eat breakfast and drink coffee as many days of the year as possible, January through December. I love it, especially the sound of the birds singing, the toot of the railroad train not far away, and the kids waiting for their school bus. When Sally, Jenna, Julie, sons-in-law Thorne and Tom, or friends join me, there is no better place in the world.