Sunday morning. All is quiet and peaceful. It’s 5:01 a.m. and just barely getting light. I looked outside and it’s green and beautiful and the birds are chirping at each other. The buds are out and the field in front of us is flooded with irrigation water.

I love it.

I love the smell. I love the sound of Canadian Geese flying over as they argue which way to navigate. I love the hooting owl down in Eyre’s trees. They seem to stay there all summer long. I love the baby calves at the end of the road balancing on all fours as they search for morning milk. I love the sun to the East peeking over the rise and the streams of light that filter through our trees.

I love it.

I love the wooden yard swing in the back yard that hubby built for my birthday in 1988. The old, old license plates he nailed into the top cross post help me realize someone was here in 1959, before us. I love that I have swung each one of my precious grandchildren on that very swing. I love the dewy trampoline in that back that all of my kids and grandchildren have bounced on. And picnicked on. And slept on. And watched the meteorite showers on hot August nights. And the high jumping-off-point attached to the little club house that Scott built when he came home from his mission. All the kids eventually jump off of there to show their new-found courage. I love the swing set with the monkey bars and swinging tire that hubby built when Mikelle and Stephen were only babies. And I love that he wrote their names in the cement of the post holes.

I love it.

I love the corral with the horses and the hay rack that hubby and Stephen built and welded together. I love the camper parked by the back window and being able to escape there when I have a book or a puzzle and don’t want interruptions. I love the shed that we built together back in our first year. We store the lawnmowers and the fertilizer spreader and tires that are still good enough to keep. I love finding the plant out behind the fence that pulls apart in it’s little sections. We play “he loves me, he loves me not” with it. Or we just count how many pieces pull apart.

Yes this is home.

I love that my mother and grandparents lived a half mile down the road in a little farm house with the red roof. That it’s the very same house I visited every single summer of my youth. I love the little birdhouse that hubby built out of wood I got from a barn [yes barn] my mother lived in as a child. I love that the Pioneers walked right across this land and that their wagon tracks are still visible. I love to imagine them going through here and knowing they only had  a week or so to go to find their new homes.

I love it all. It’s far from perfect and believe me, there are plenty of things I don’t like about this place. But for now, this morning, it’s where I’m at. It’s what I love. It’s where I want to be.

Sunday morning. All is quiet and peaceful. It’s 5:31 a.m.

2 thoughts on “h.o.m.e.

  1. tracy

    I love it, too and I wonder at what point does my current residence become more “home” than the lovely little piece of ground in Wyoming that I hold dear.

  2. weighingmatters Post author

    Oh, it’s time. Past time. But where I grew up in Evanston is always home to me too. Not how it is now. How it is in the picture Janet painted. So many memories. So much of Mom there. When I was writing about the wooden swing I thought of when those guys came and gave your little one a Priesthood blessing. Remember?

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