Home

Sometimes going home gives me the chills. There is something about the old play house in the west woods, the cottonwood tree fort in the south that Erik and Erin built almost two decades ago, and the way that things almost never change.

Erin and I were walking our 120th Avenue for a walk as the sun started to set last night, the Creator mesmerizing our eyes with His strokes of oranges, reds, and light pinks. At the end of our driveway she asked me, “Which way do you want to go?”

I promptly said, “That way,” pointing to the North, towards Heyma’s old house. Erin smiled. I continued, “The other way is scary.” She agreed. For some reason, that surprised me.

I am continually refreshed by the idea that these memories and stirrings inside me about home are not just true for me, but for my whole family, my sisters.

I recently bought a pattern for Raggedy Ann to try to attempt Heyma’s art of doll making. Ironically, I found a pattern that looked JUST like hers and was actually printed in 1977. Determined to find my raggedies, I came across some of my old stuffed animals. I found Mr. Big Bear, Mr. Beep-Beep, Big Bird with one eye, and even my Wendy doll I bought with my saved $15 in first grade.

Mr. Big Bear, really a 1986 Santa Bear without his hat, I held for a long time. That one embrace surfaced so many emotions and so many memories that I forced myself to put him down because it was a bit too much. Memories about Heyma, about Erik that had a Mr. Big Bear too, about Umpa that died and crying myself to sleep in this bear’s arms. It was all too strong and too weird.
Home. It holds so much.

Perhaps my first feeling of home was when I arrived. Lugging all our stuff through the door and plopping them on the stained dining room floor. After a short exchange of hellos and birthday greetings, we all decided to surprise Dad in the shop. He had been working most of the day preparing his John Deere combine for the harvest and when we arrived, he looked exactly how I love to remember him - covered in dirt, grease, oil, and just smudged with sweat and work.

This was and is my dad. This is my home. This is where I come from.

And as my dad smiled at all of us parading through the open door, his grin was as beautiful as words can express.

Some days I wish I could just wallow there and try to remember all the sentiments of home. The comfort and ease and peace of such a place and all the emotions that I have still not quite worked out in my adult mind.