My friend Sue Bradford stopped by to see me the other night. We haven’t seen each other in probably two years. Sue is one of those friends with whom it doesn’t matter how long it’s been since we saw each other, we simply pick back up where we left off. She has moved to Salt Lake since I saw her last. She was telling me about the move and how it’s different living in a rented condo after living in their family home for so long, but that she and her daughter realized soon after they got settled in that it was still home.
Home is the people you are with, not the building you are in.
That’s probably why even though I miss my family and our farm and am often nostalgic for Oregon, my neighborhood here on the Grandview Hill is home to me. We’ve lived in two houses here, but this one–though it has more room–feels no more like home to me than the last. And these people here are what kept us tethered so when we did move, it was only across the street. So many have come and gone. But they are still family and this is still home to all of us.
My family is spread out. But when we visit, it doesn’t matter if it is here or there, it is home. Idaho and even a couple of hours north of where I grew up in Oregon are home simply because when we are together as family it feels like home.
I missed my Dad’s family reunion this past weekend. And missing the love and hugs and catching up with my aunts and uncles–the closest reminder I have of my father here on earth–and cousins makes me homesick. This year the reunion was at the family property in the backcountry near Bear Lake. But it wouldn’t have mattered where we gathered. The people make it home.
Things are a little crazy at the current home in which I live. And, to be honest, sometimes I need a break. But even amidst the chaos, these are my people and they are home to me.
[Day 151 of Ann Dee Ellis’ 8-Minute Memoir.]