Home

I write this blog from the friendly skies*, on my flight home to Seattle from my original home in Missouri. I had a blissful seven days at home with my original family and it was even more special than usual.

My parents celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary on July 5th and my sisters and I threw them a surprise celebration Saturday night. 50 years together is certainly worthy of a fabulous celebration and I love to celebrate two of the people I love most in this world.

My two big kids came with me on this journey and they are troopers on this long journey home. Missouri doesn’t sound that far from Seattle, but my little hometown is literally in the middle of nowhere. Far from a major airport. West Plains is a four hour drive south of St. Louis, 4 hours north of Little Rock, and 4 hours west of Memphis. The good news is you can pick any airport to fly into. The unfortunate news is you have a long drive after the 4 hour flight. Adding in time at the airport and renting a car and you could get to London from Seattle more quickly.

But I love going home. Even after 20+ years, West Plains is still my original home. I love driving through the rolling Ozark hills, leaving the big cities behind. The world is quiet. The pace moves more slowly. The sounds of outside are amplified. The air feels electric, yet peaceful, all at the same time.

My parent’s built our home (my grandpa, a home-builder and skilled carpenter, literally built it) when I was 3. I cannot remember ever living anywhere else until I left for college. It was a completely wonderful place to grow up.

Home is where you are loved unconditionally. Where my parents and sisters know my full history. We share inside jokes that are decades old. Where big hugs await. And long, long conversations and memories are shared.

Home is lazy mornings on the back deck, overlooking the lake in my parent’s backyard. It is beautiful. And peaceful. We sit for hours drinking coffee and chatting about everything and nothing.

Home is where the katydids and crickets sing loud songs at night. A virtual orchestra that instantly takes me back in time to nights driving on country roads, with the windows down, with my girlfriends – singing our hearts out.

Home is running on country roads around the lake, where my legs have logged hundreds and hundreds of miles over the years. I still know the right tangents to run – thoughtlessly – pure muscle memory. Every car or truck that drives by gives a friendly wave – not because they know me anymore, but because that is just what you do.

Home is cramming in my mom’s bathroom with my sister’s as we all try to get ready and primp in front of the same two mirrors – even though there are several other bathrooms in the house. It’s way more fun to get ready together. Always has been.

Home is beating my son and nephew at ping pong. Because I’m still not bad after all of these years. And I show no mercy. Ever.

Home is playing the piano where I first learned to play. The keys are familiar in weight and sound and I’m amazed at how the melodies come back so quickly regardless of lack of practice. Rusty, yes. But still beautiful.

Home is running barefoot in the grass in my old backyard. Where I used to catch crickets and chase my big sister with them maliciously.

Home is where my childhood bedroom still looks largely the same. The majority of the house has been remodeled over the years, but my attic bedroom looks like the room I grew up in. Same pictures, awards, and stuffed animals as when I left home. And treasures to be found in all of the drawers. On this trip, my daughter tried on my old running uniform from college and found several journals from my college years. Hand-written – front to back. Books of memories. I’m not quite ready to share them with her, but I look forward to reading them and immersing myself in my 18 and 19 year-old mind.

Home is where you meet your childhood best friend to catch up and three hours go by in the blink of an eye over Corona’s and margaritas. And endless chips, salsa and guacamole of course. My family met me for dinner at the same restaurant and I literally was there for five hours. But old friends can talk forever, as if a day hasn’t passed since we were passing notes in the hallways of our school. And talk forever we do.

Home is where you can still drive the streets of town with your eyes practically shut. The streets are familiar and the buildings are the same. Some things change, of course, but many things have stayed the same.

Home is driving through the really country towns that your grandparents lived in on your way to a bigger lake in northern Arkansas. These country roads were driven every Sunday for lunch at one house and dinner at the other. I have such special memories of my grandparent’s and it is so strange and surprising still that they are no longer there to visit.

Home is seeing my parent’s friends at their party and knowing they saw me grow up. Many have known me my entire life. I babysat for others. They all know me so very well from the stories my parent’s still tell. They would do anything for me. Even though I haven’t spoken to some of them in decades.

Home is watching the sun set over the water and seeing brilliant pinks and purples illuminated on the water. The air is still. The sun is hot as it sets. And its absolutely beautiful.

Home is a magical place. And I’m so lucky to have such a good one. With a family I can’t wait to see. And miss terribly when I leave.

But I know I will return. And it will feel like home. And it will be amazing.

*of course Go Go didn’t work, so posting the next day….