Home Sweet Home

What is it about home that feels so wonderful? I'm just back from a long week, by that I mean more than 7 days, away from home, and the places I went were by far mostly much more beautiful and interesting than this place where I live. Still, last night there was just this huge "ah" as I stepped into the mud room and turned on the lights. This is where I can relax, take a nap, hug my kitty, make a mess or clean one up, whatever suits my fancy.

Coming up the driveway, the most obvious thing was how high the grass had grown. We had rain. Yea! Need so much more, but grateful for what fell. My SO said, "I'm going to have to get on the tractor tomorrow." So I know what we'll be doing today. He will mow the front acres, and at the same time, I'll get on the riding lawn mower to do the area around the house. We have three acres, and it's sometimes an awful lot to keep neat. The house needs cleaning. It got dusty with nobody here but the cat here. And I'm sure the bird feeders are all empty, probably have some pot plants that are dry -- the ones that sit under the eaves out of the rain. So it will be a busy day, and yet, I am so anxious to get at it I am up before dawn, just waiting for the first light to arrive so I can go see how everything out there fared.

And as I sit and wait, it occurs to me that there is just something special about home. Even though I love to travel, to see new places, the way other people do things and live, there is still nothing finer than ones own piece of the world. Mine is admittedly less lovely than the mountains I've been in the last week, but it's my nest and I'm happiest here.

I have yet to hear from the opinion page editor at the paper. Had the laptop with me the whole time I was gone, and he never emailed or responded to the last one I sent to him. It's Saturday so I know I can't reach him today, but will call first thing Monday to see if he wants to publish the damned thing. If not, or if I don't get some kind of satisfactory answer, I will simply pull it to send elsewhere. At the very least our little rural paper would probably be delighted to have something different, maybe even a bit controversial, to publish in their weekly. But of course, my aspirations are higher. They always are.

Meanwhile, I've been thinking about cleaning my files, looking through some of those old, unfinished short stories. One in particular has been picking at me lately. Does it take twenty years to finally figure out what a story is about? Maybe. I still find the workings of the mind to be infinitely fascinating. Even if it's my own.

Onward ....