Trite, but True: There's no place like home.

I love going home. Home, home, home. And honestly - I'm one of those jerks that call everything home. When I'm at Disney World and it's hot and tiring, I say let's go home (home=hotel with a pool {because who stays in Florida where there's no pool?}). When it's a long night and I've hit my ceiling - let's go home. Home to my apartment. But home, home? Home-ity, home? That's where my family lives.

It's here I can (and have) shown up with nothing but the clothes on my back to spend the night and go into work the next day looking like not a thing in the world is amiss. It's where my niece coos to me "Aunt Megan, braid my hair?" and I oblige in honor of the service. Where I can chip the polish off my nails and not worry about cuticles. Where I can hear coyotes howl and see turkeys strut and admire the grazing deer and watch frogs plop fatly into ponds. Where I can pull books off shelves and read familiar words. Where I see my brother and sister-in-law kiss when they think no one is looking. Where stories are told - new ones with zest and vigor; old ones with added and embellished details to make the lore more enticing. Where the yard and gardens are kept with such loving, tender and beautiful care, and where I can, know and will grab food from bushes, heavy branches and vines. Where I liken the admonishments of my aunties to the wisdom of my saintly mother, and chalk the witticisms of my uncles into my father's body of knowledge of humor. Where family gathers, inviting their friends - who often shy away at first, until they understand they are all welcome in the bumble of life that is here. Where old friends visit when in town, knowing ceremony isn't stood upon and coming in with a "hello!" and not a formal knock on the door. Where my nephew and I pretend we're performers in a Cirque du Soleil routine and rehearse our act. Where I can drink the only coffee in the world I drink of a morning and eat a breakfast I don't pull out of my office drawer and heat with water in the microwave. Where the only fight is with my father about who gets to fill out the Jumble puzzle on the newsprint in the newspaper. Where my mother often says "let me scratch your back" and my father often says "I cleaned some ducks for you to take when you go." Where I can fall asleep on the living room floor after a big meal while everyone is still milling about. Where it's bedtime and I have to braid my own hair in Laura Ingalls Wilder pigtails because you know I forgot my own hair ties and my fat hair can't all fit in just one of the niece's little girl hair ties.

My only hope is that I offer something to the foray too.

I could do this all night. But I gotta go now. I'm home now. Home-ity home. Can't spend any more time not being here.