The Ones Who Make It Home
Last night, I was sitting in the field beside our house. The hay had just been cut and rolled into bales. The clouds were dark and rippling behind the tree tops; fireflies floated above the shorn grass.
My dog was beside me, wagging her tail. I could see my cat’s panther-black body slinking down the path. My hair in a ponytail, still wearing my gardening gloves and galoshes, I drew my knees up to my chest and looked around, feeling as carefree and euphoric as someone half my age.
That is when I realized that fourteen years ago this summer, exactly half my lifetime ago, my family and I were moving away from the camp where I’d lived for eight years. The night before we left, I sat on a flat, white rock in the middle of a hayfield, my legs drawn up to my chest, and wept over that property like I was mourning the death of a friend.
I couldn’t believe I would love a piece of land like I loved that land. I couldn’t believe that life would be good again. That my family would be all right again.
In many ways, that fourteen-year-old summer was my first heartache. But for the first time last night, I saw my life divided into two sections: those first fourteen years, the majority of which I spent on the camp, and the fourteen years that have passed.
I have experienced my share of loss and heartache in these latter fourteen years, but the majority of what I remember is joy. In college, writing and reading in Boswell Park on a faux mink blanket, traveling and absorbing new cultures, marrying my husband, building our home, giving birth to our girls, moving somewhere new, and building life—and love—all over again after my husband’s craniotomy, which served as our wake-up call to embrace every day with eyes and arms and hearts wide open.
And that’s when I understood that a lifespan is not defined by what patches of ground are beneath our feet while we live it; it’s defined by the ones who live that life with us. The ones who are working the ground side by side with us, through both drought and harvest, winter and spring.
The ones who claim our hearts are the ones who make it home.
As a child, were you ever attached to a piece of land or home?
Photo credit: Malcolm Carlow
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MS Barb
Yes, I was attached to my parent’s lake home in northern MN–was primitive when I was growing up–outhouse & had to prime the pump each spring for water…no television–my younger siblings & I played outside; were in the lake or on the lake a lot! I have memories of many peaceful days there!
jolina
Sounds like writing fodder to me, Ms Barb! Children love adventure and never see hardship. I love their resilience. Some of my favorite childhood memories were produced by living in a slave quarters on this camp. 🙂
Melissa Crytzer Fry
Gorgeous piece, Jolina. I loved where I grew up, but since I didn’t move away until I was an adult — and it was my choice — the departure was easier. Where I landed, in Arizona, has now captured my heart. But you’re right that these physical locations are made all the sweeter when surrounded by the ones we love.
jolina
You have made Arizona come alive for me, Melissa. I will never view it the same way again.
Rebekah
I remember standing under a huge tree with the longest swing I’d ever seen overlooking a sunset-tinged panorama with rolling hills and a view that just made you want to explore (like a blond-haired little two-year-old boy). The memory is a heavy one because of the turmoil inside my young friend that stood with me that afternoon. As still a teen myself, I had little experience to promise that things would get better, and it hurt to not be able to help my friend. My faith that things would get better seemed almost trite and hard to express to someone in so much pain. Awhile later, when observing the way God blessed you with a new home and a view that even surpassed the first one, my faith was strengthened. Your entire life is more of an encouragement to me than you could know. I am so thankful for how God has, is, and will bless you and also for the fact that you are so vocal about the journey. Love you, little sister.
jolina
That move–and all the turmoil attached with it–did some incredible things in my own life, so I am grateful. Thank you for your compassionate heart and for recalling that sweet memory. The years have placed those years in a sunset-tinged light. I love that about time. 🙂
Juju at Tales of Whimsy.com
So so so so so so so beautifully put Jolina. You’re so right.
jolina
Thanks, Juju! Hope you’re having a great summer! So good to see you here! 🙂
Cindy
Great post to make me think of all the moves I’ve made. Being extremely sentimental, I don’t think I’ve ever left a house without tears. The first was the house my grandparents moved out of when I was about 6. This was the house my parents brought me home to the hospital to and we lived there until I was 3. I remember standing at the kitchen door looking out onto the back porch and kissing the wall goodbye, of all things. That was my first house goodbye. The next hardest was when we sold our first house, the one we moved to as newlyweds, brought my baby boy home to, buried cats in the yard, remembered great Thanksgiving dinners with family down from MD. But the hardest, oh my, my heart was broken. My beloved grandparents died 5 months apart. I made numerous trips from home (FL) to MD and emptied out a house they had lived in from 1964 to 2002. What memories, all so sweet too! When everything was done, emptied, sold and we made our last walk through, I sobbed and sobbed. I felt as if I were losing my grandparents again. Fortunately I took photos of all the rooms before we emptied them so I can look back at wonderful memories. But that has to be the hardest house to leave for the last time.
jolina
Beautiful story, Cindy! I have a feeling we are sentimental friends. 😉 I only wish I had pictures of each room in each house I ever lived. Even my door rooms in college. Then again, everything always looks better in memories!