Home

          Wherever I travel people ask, “Where are you from?” I tell them that’s difficult to answer because I don’t know what they are asking. Do they want to know where I was born; where I just came from; or where I live? I tell them that those are three different places. Somewhat frustrated they will then ask, “Well, where’s home?” I tell them, “Oklahoma,” and they are satisfied. However, that answer is only partially true. I’m not trying to be deceptive; I just think of home as more than a place.

          Home is the people I love. Home is my wife and children living in my memory or sitting by my side. When I am home my children and their children are young again and so am I. I laugh, cry and feel again how precious life is because they have shared it with me. When I am home sharing the sofa with my wife fills the room with forty years of love and companionship that no thrill ride can match.

When I am home, the world that follows me through the door is a guest. It may stay only as long as I let it. The rude, the ignorant, and the just plain ungodly that haunt my world fade like ghosts. At home even the little hairy creature is a comfort to me. Home is contentment.

I’d rather be inside the walls of the house on Ada Street, but it’s only home in a brick and mortar sense. Home is sometimes hitched to the back of my truck because home is where I can spend time with those I love—if only in my mind.