It was only a dream...

I've been thinking a lot about the concept of home lately. Since I'm planning to sell my house and relocate into the city within the next year, it's something that quietly nags at the back of my mind from time to time. By the time I leave, I will have been in this house longer than any other; all of my life, I've been on the move. The last seven years have been a respite. So much has changed in that time, but this place has been a constant. I've done so much work to make it mine that it feels like an extension of self - my own shell, in which I feel safe and protected. It's a bit unnerving to think of leaving.

So what, I ask myself, makes a home? Everyone has their own definition, and each is meaningful. It always seems to have its own feeling, though. Something can smell like home, or sound like home. It can look homey, and it can invoke memories of home. But it always feels the same.

For many years, I thought of my grandparents' house as the closest thing I had to a home. We'd moved so often when I was younger that a lot of the places we lived just felt like houses after a while. My grandparents' house, though, was different. It smelled of Rose Milk hand lotion and fruit flavored Certs candies. The flocked wallpaper along the staircase never changed, and the faux black-bearskin bedspread in the bedroom where I slept always felt softer than green grass in the springtime. The chimes of the antique clock, the mystery of the laundry chute (from which Santa's voice would magically boom as Christmas approached), and the closet shelf filled with playing cards, dominoes, and a plastic bowling set were all so much a part of that sense of peace. I simply knew that at Grandma and Grandpa's house, there was happiness.

It's been a long time now since my grandma passed away. Nine years, which have been long and painful for my grandpa. The house is sad now, and he struggles a bit more every day to make it feel like more than a house. I still feel loved the moment I walk in the door, though. The memories are still there.

So again, I look at this house, which I have made into a new home. The bookshelves in the living room are packed with poetry and pictures, and the kitchen smells of cookies and spices. The clutter of A's childhood fills corners which are lit with sunlight filtered through wooden shutters. My big warm bed welcomes me in every night. Here, we have memories of our own, of good times and bad. We have laughed here, and we have cried. We have loved, and we have lost. We have done what needed to be done, and reaped the rewards of our efforts.

Finally, after so many years of searching for a home of my own, I now realize that it's not something you find - it is something you make. This house, in which we have lived for so many years, has been the first place that I've felt strong enough to pull together all of the pieces of my life and build something beautiful of them.

I have built a home.

And I can take it with me now, no matter where I go.

It's been so long since I've written that I'm almost afraid to start again. Time passes, life happens, and we settle into the grooves of existence. Writing seems less important - the need to create shape from thought becomes more of a curiosity, and all of those little moments that seem so poignant at the time just slip off into oblivion before they can be captured.

I want to write again. Not for you, my friend - for myself. It's amazing how much I enjoy reliving those moments that have been so neatly filed away in past entries. Having a record of the past ups and downs helps maintain perspective on the present, and...well, it just makes me smile.

I like smiling. Let's see if I can get this going again.

It was getting late as I sat outside on the patio. Finishing my second glass of wine, I closed my eyes and listened to the last of the birds wishing each other good night. The fireflies were out, blinking across the back yard. Everything was peaceful.

Catching up after vacation has been a challenge, and I'd stopped for dinner with friends after work. The quiet moment was blissfully sweet, and much needed. Inside the back door, the cat meowed quietly. I'm watching him while M & A are out of town, and I knew he wished he could come sit with me and feel the breeze in his face. I quieted him with a gentle word, and looked up at the darkening sky.

A single drop of rain fell upon my cheek. I smiled and took another sip of wine.

Gradually, the rain began to fall in earnest. I turned my face upward, and felt the cool drops as they landed. The warmth of the evening made them a welcome gift, and I sat for a long moment simply wishing that life could always be so simple.

Night fell, and the fireflies continued their lazy paths around me, through the falling rain. After a while, I stood to come inside. My wine glass was empty, and the breeze was getting cooler. I lifted the glass to the darkness, and silently thanked mother nature for the brief respite.

Stepping inside, I set my glass on the counter and picked up the cat. He purred happily, and settled in to be petted.

Never forget to take moments for yourself. Life is too beautiful to let it pass you by.

As always, our camping trip was delightful. Hours of sitting by the campfire roasting things, lots of wild blueberries (which made for yummy pancakes over the camp stove in the morning), another canoeing trip I'll never forget (I might have to do a separate entry on that one), and all around total relaxation.

On the way home, we stopped at my parents' house for a barbecue. While we were there, my dad proudly announced that I had to take a look at the great DVD he had made of all of the family pictures. He'd categorized them all by person, and set them to music.

I knew this was going to be like watching slides from someone's cruise to Belize, but I humored him. After all, how bad can it be, right? Besides, I know he spent a lot of time putting it together.

So he popped it in, and selected my photos. They started with my wedding, and went on from there. About thirty seconds into it, I scrunched my brows and looked over at him.

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"That music. Is that....'Candle in the Wind'?"

"Good catch! I knew you'd like that song."

Hm. My life, in all of its glory, reduced to Elton John in midi format.

"Let's go to A...." I said after a moment.

I hit the menu button, selected A, and pulled him up.

Again, a few seconds in....

"Dad!"

"What?!"

"'Tears in Heaven'? Really?!"

"What?! It's a great song! Alec loves Eric Clapton!"

I looked at A.

"So let me get this straight...I'm a dead drug addict?"

A piped up, "And I'm the dead son of a drug addict! That's perfect!"

My mother, bless her heart, immediately laughed whiskey and coke out of her nose.

"You guys!" my dad huffed. "You have no appreciation for good music!"

He stomped away. I looked at my mother forlornly, and shrugged.

"Aren't you glad you paid for all of those years of music education?"

My mom, still wiping her drink off of her face, simply said, "It could be worse. Your sister is the 'Dancing Queen'".

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

As I was standing outside this afternoon, watering my flowers in the rain with mashed potatoes between my toes, I smiled.

It appears that I've survived the last year (see past wailing and gnashing re: working in the financial sector during this recession), and things are better. For me, at least.

I'm fairly certain that I'm back where I want to be. I may even be stronger than ever.

This makes me happy, like mashed potatoes and rain.

Today is my son's thirteenth birthday.

Does it sound like a cliché if I admit that the time has flown by more quickly than I can fathom?

Yesterday, Mark and I took A and his best friend down to US Cellular Field to see the Crosstown Classic - Cubs vs. Sox in all of their collective glory. Halfway through the fifth inning, the boys wandered off to get something to eat, and after about 15 minutes, I was starting to worry. What if they were lost? What if someone robbed them, beat them, took them? What if....?

Mark laughed at me, and pointed out that we hadn't told them when to be back. "They're two teenage boys at the ballpark. Let them be."

Sure enough, they came back, having eaten a couple of hot dogs and explored half of the park. They were glowing - and enjoying a perfect day.

In my mind, they are still little boys. Look at these faces...





They stand on the verge of changing into men, and yet when I look at them, I still see the innocence of childhood. I remember taking A to the blueberry farm, and watching him set aside his little basket to eat as many blueberries as he could directly off of the bushes. I recall him begging to water the garden, and then spraying the hose into the dining room windows, soaking half the house. I see the worried face of a kid who was terrified of taking the training wheels off of his bike, in case he came across an unexpected hill.

This is the boy who still has the god-awful ugly stuffed bear I gave him as a baby, and was recently delighted when my mother sewed a new nose and mouth onto him - so much so that he took a picture with his cell phone and sent it to me.

This is the boy who used to finger paint in the pool, and make up his own words to songs...making me laugh until I fell over.



(I couldn't embed - grr. Click, and then hit 'play')

My little boy. My baby. Now a teenager.

Every day I love him more, and every day he gets a little closer to independence. Little by little, I'm learning to let him be his own little man, no matter how difficult it is to do so.

Happy birthday, little bug, and thank you for being the joy of my life.