We spent roughly 25-30 years of our 43 year married life living in Mt. Shasta. I know, roughly? Why don’t I know exactly? We were running around back and forth for a few years, so it’s not black and white. At any rate, we spent most of our grown up lives there, raised our family, made what will be lifelong friends, and still own a home there, so even though we haven’t live there for nearly ten years, it should still be a strong contender for “home.”
So now we’re up in Mt. Shasta for a couple of days, on our way to vacation in Sunriver, Oregon.
The 4th of July is a big deal here. You’ve heard the saying “All hearts come home for Christmas?” Well, here it’s “All hearts come home for the 4th of July.”
It’s a small town. A REALLY small town. Home to the biggest little footrace around, a totally small town parade, pretty decent fireworks over the lake, lots of kids coming home for class reunions, and really, just to visit, its numbers swell over this weekend.
We don’t make it back every year, but fairly often. A piece of my heart will always be here.
But the truth is, it doesn’t feel like home any more.
We have family friends renting our house, so we stay in a hotel, although our daughter and grandkids stayed with them, and we spent the 4th there visiting.
We’d completely remodeled the house right before leaving, so we never really got used to the new look. And of course, with their furniture and changes they’ve made to the backyard, it’s quite different. Maybe if it was still our vacation home, I would feel differently.
There are tons of memories. If I were to go our in the back yard and lie on a lounge chair and just look up at the trees and the sky, I’d probably start bawling (so I didn’t!)
But it’s not home any more.
Nor is Southern California where both Mr. Tattered and I were born and raised and where we met and married.
No, home is Folsom, where we live now. And fortunately, that is where our kids live, too.
We don’t have a LOT of history there yet. We’re up to ten years now, so we’re getting there. God willin’ and the crik don’t rise, we might end up living there longer than anywhere else. But since it isn’t the longevity that makes it home, I started wondering what exactly DOES make a place home?
And for me, the best answer is “Home is where Mr. Tattered is,” and I’m very fortunate my family is there, too.
Do you have deep roots that keep a place other than where you live now feeling like home?