Not everybody has one–this place called “home.” Not the place where you hang your hat and sleep, not even the place where you create your Christmas traditions and bring your babies home to. I mean the place you grew up, the place where your parents still live and work and sleep within the same walls, to the same routines, that they did when you were a child.
In this mobile day and age, not many people have that.
And that makes it so much more precious, knowing that I do.
It’s the warm gold of ripening soybeans threaded with emerald, glowing softly below a steel-gray sky.
It’s the tranquil fuzziness of the pond that reflected all my nightly celestial wanderings.
It’s the comfort of knowing, in a world constantly shifting, that some things never change: the same hulking behemoth in red, visible from half a mile away, needing work, as always. Being coaxed back to life, as always, by a man wearing the same blue snap shirts, the same jeans and the same suspenders as always.
It’s Grandpa and forklifts and tractors.
It’s visits with distant aunts (mine) who give wheelbarrow rides.
It’s piles of dust and dirt that attract tiny bottoms with some magical, unstoppable magnetic force.
It’s the realization that in a world of insider trading and Senate seats bought and sold, the dirtiest work is sometimes the cleanest.
Linked to On, In and Around Mondays…