Home. If you really think about it the concept of "Home" is a powerful concept. It carries with it all kinds of emotions, all kinds of memories, all kinds of baggage (both good and not-so-good).
My dad was in the military, so I grew up in a lot of different places. I had a lot of different "homes," but none of them ever kept a place in my heart...not really. There were really great things about all the different places I lived as a kid, and my family did things to make most of the places fun, with good memories attached; but none those places was really "home." That place where your heart yearns to return.
When I got married and went out on my own, I tried to adopt the place my first husband grew up as "home." It worked to a degree. It was the place where my folks lived after my dad retired from the military. It was where my first husband's heart was, and where his childhood friends and memories were. I did, and do, love that place and love to visit there. It's beautiful and the people there are special to me; especially (of course) my parents and siblings who still live there. But it never, quite, became "home." Since I was military, we travelled and lived in a lot of different places, and I tried to make a home for my family in each of them; but none of them became that one place where my heart wanted to be.
For me, there has always only been one place that has touched my soul, where my spirits rise when I arrive, where I feel relaxed and more "me" than anywhere else. Flyover Country. When I was a kid, this is the place where we would come for one or two weeks each summer to visit with my grandparents. I had friends here, with whom I could pick up the prior summer's conversation and friendship without pause. I loved visiting here. I loved the beauty of the place, the history, and the people. 
I still do. I've chosen to live here, even though it's rural and remote. (Maybe, though, that's part of the draw for me.) I've chosen to live here, even though there are some inconveniences. I've chosen to live here, because it's home. I'm so fortunate that my husband loves this place as much as I do.
I'm so fortunate that he has chosen to adopt my home as his own. They say that, "home is where the heart is." For me, on many different levels, my home is here: in Flyover Country with my man.
My dad was in the military, so I grew up in a lot of different places. I had a lot of different "homes," but none of them ever kept a place in my heart...not really. There were really great things about all the different places I lived as a kid, and my family did things to make most of the places fun, with good memories attached; but none those places was really "home." That place where your heart yearns to return.
When I got married and went out on my own, I tried to adopt the place my first husband grew up as "home." It worked to a degree. It was the place where my folks lived after my dad retired from the military. It was where my first husband's heart was, and where his childhood friends and memories were. I did, and do, love that place and love to visit there. It's beautiful and the people there are special to me; especially (of course) my parents and siblings who still live there. But it never, quite, became "home." Since I was military, we travelled and lived in a lot of different places, and I tried to make a home for my family in each of them; but none of them became that one place where my heart wanted to be.
I still do. I've chosen to live here, even though it's rural and remote. (Maybe, though, that's part of the draw for me.) I've chosen to live here, even though there are some inconveniences. I've chosen to live here, because it's home. I'm so fortunate that my husband loves this place as much as I do. 
I'm so fortunate that he has chosen to adopt my home as his own. They say that, "home is where the heart is." For me, on many different levels, my home is here: in Flyover Country with my man.
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