I grew up going to our country house in the Berkshires on weekends which we all referred to, simply, as "the country." When I was little, I loved going. I would spend endless hours outside getting sweaty playing sports. As a teen, I resented going there at times because it meant missing out on social things here, but when I did go I would savor the family time and get lots of academic work done.
The house is an old Colonial farm house and Dad in particular cherished it. He went for wildflower walks in the woods most mornings and spent his days in his study surrounded by his duck decoys and looking out at the land. He'd write and write with his beloved Parker pens on his yellow legal pads and he would fry up bacon for breakfast and we'd listen to Mose Allison on the scratchy old record player at night. So many memories good and hard at that place. When Dad died, we kind of stopped going. It was difficult to be there without him.
But this past weekend, we went. The girls, Husband, Mom and her two dogs and I made the trip for one night and it was meaningful and quite magical. My girls ran and ran in the fields, their legs pumping and hair flying. My middle lady found a four-leaf clover. My biggest girl played soccer and baseball and basketball and declared for the first time, I love sports! My babes hunted for Easter eggs where I hunted for eggs every Easter of my childhood. And I went from room to room in the old, creaky house looking at things, really looking at them. I found many treasures and many clues and now I am very thoughtful about this place, this place from my past and maybe, just maybe, my future too.
Home. It's more than place and people. It's certainly both of these things, but also so much more. It's memories and smells and tears and fears and photos and books and trees and grass and ladybugs and love and life and luck. It's here and there, me and him and them.
To learn more about my recently commenced HERE Year, click here.