Home

I confess that I find travelling exciting. New horizons. New people. Different weather. Different time zones. Varying cultures, customs and routines. When we have the opportunity, I enjoy visiting historical (and sometimes not so historical) homes. Once when we were visiting Kansas City, we took the time to tour former President Harry Truman’s home. The best part was discovering how unpretentious a life he lived. Considering that at one time he had been one of the most important governmental figures, he lived a remarkably simple life. The thing that stood out to me was a little detail that some might not consider nearly as important as the books he read or the White House memorabilia. Harry Truman would rise in the morning before daylight, get his newspaper and sit at the kitchen table. On the wall next to the table was a lamp that could be turned on by pulling a chain. Because it was dark when he got up, he’d always turn on the light so he could read his paper. He did this routinely for years as evidenced by the worn place on the wallpaper. You could almost picture him there just an ordinary person reading his newspaper. It’s those little things that make a house a home.

When my travels are over and I've gone where my heart desires, I get back into my car and follow the familiar roads that lead back to where I live. Where the bear sentinel stands guard as we come and go . . .

and the flowers we planted bloom . . .

and I can push my old reliable key into the familiar lock . . .

and turn it as I’ve done thousands of times before . . .

and it opens to the place where I can see the dent in the wall from moving a desk and the marks on the doorframe that note how children have grown. Where the stairs have a familiar creak and there’s a knob that will never tighten on the cabinet. Where I can find the light switch in the dark and know the number of steps by heart. Where I am happily home again.