Home

The Handy Man's parents still live in the house they bought when he was in kindergarten. Each room holds memories for him. The basement where he helped paint his mother's freezer.  The backyard is where he played and ran from the torments of his older brothers. He can name the families that live in the houses up and down the street.  If we went to church with my in-laws, there would be many worshipers who could tell me stories about my husband and his childhood antics. They'd smile and resist the urge to pinch his cheeks. 

My family moved a lot when I was growing up. A lot. There were two very long trips between Idaho and Arizona that I remember well. Laying in the  way-back of our green station wagon, watching the sky fly by at a brisk 75 mph.  Mom packed lunches and wet washcloths in plastic bags for the long journey.  Stops at the rest area were mini adventures where we were left to explore the rocks and cactus.

The house where we lived during my junior and senior years.

Though my mom became a pro at packing and moving, we lived most of our years in two places. Mesa, Arizona and southern Idaho.  When I was 21, my parents moved to Utah and finally 'settled down'.  In the years since then, I visited Arizona several times.  I drove past old homes and the church where we attended every Sunday.  Change does strange things to memories.  It's hard to wrap my heart around the church where I was baptized when it now belongs to another religion.  One of our houses was torn down and the apartments they built don't bring up any fond images.  Change is inevitable, but because I wasn't there to be a part of it, it is foreign to me.

I didn't visit Idaho for two decades.  It's much closer than Arizona, but there wasn't much to draw me there. Our families had all moved on.  Then, one summer, I visited with my older sister and my parents. As we walked down the narrow Main street in my mother's small home town, emotions and memories flooded my heart and mind until I feared they would spill out through tears.  I lingered at the high school, peering down the hallway where, braced against the tall, gray lockers, I'd learned the sweetness of a first kiss.  There in the classrooms where I passed notes with my first love, thrilling at the words he penned just for me.  We saw the football field where I discovered that I could dance, where I got my first shot of confidence as I cheered our team in my short, orange skirt.

The Snake River- Rupert, Idaho

Later, we went across the river, just as we'd done so many times before. Our home there seemed so small and I wondered how my mother felt as she'd moved her six children into it's cramped rooms.  The dairy where my father worked is no longer there, but the surroundings haven't changed. (The smell is better.)  I took long walks along the fields of alfalfa, onions and sugar beets, proud that I can still recognize the crops.  I paused at the homes of my best friends, where we spent days riding horses and nights discussing boys.

In Idaho I discovered my roots.  Not just because I was born there, but because of the memories that hold me fast to the land.  The river which brought me peace as a troubled teen still stirred feelings of content.  The water moved quickly, but was smooth and calm.  I could smell the sage growing on its banks and hear the catfish as they jumped in the water. The mountains on the skyline turned purple in the evening light.  All of my senses soaked in the feelings that literally vibrated the air around me.  This is my home.  I do not live here. I never will again. But, the land has an imprint of my soul.  It may lay dormant while I am away, but awakens every time I'm near.  It calls to me, beckons me.  We are attached to one another.  My roots here grow deep.  Which is how it should be.  At home.

(This post was written for the AtoZ Challenge and also for the GBE 2: Blog On prompt- Home.)