My Mother always said: “I love to go, but I love to go home.”
I think of this when Earl and I return from a trip. It doesn’t matter if it’s a visit to family or a cruise or a road trip. It doesn’t matter if it’s a long weekend or a lengthy adventure. What matters is that home is waiting at the end of the journey.
I think of various definitions of home, although I can’t recall who said all of them.
“Home is where the heart is.”
“Home is where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.”
“Oh give me a home where the buffalo roam. . . “
“Home, home on the range . . .”
I’ve lived in thirty-five homes over sixty-seven years; and I can recall every one of them. And, no matter where I’ve roamed, I’ve always enjoyed returning to that place that represented my current postal address. Wherever it was, it was home.
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