-Home is Love-

This was written about a year ago for an English assignment. I'm pretty proud of it. I haven't edited it since, so I may work on it more later.




Home is Love
Home, what a funny word. It’s almost as hard to describe as love. What is home?
Home was in a yellow and brick one story house; now it’s a two-story beige house. Home was in front of a riverbank; now it’s a few blocks away from three banks. Home had an elephant in the front yard; now it has a rock fountain. Home was where my parents were; now it’s where my future husband is. Home was where I played house; now it’s where I live it. Home was where I put off doing chores; it still is. Home was where my dogs were; now it’s where my other dogs are. Home was where I grew up; now it’s where my children will grow up. It’s where I’m still growing up.
Home is a tree that was in the backyard. It was perfect for climbing and even more perfect for sitting in. It was where I ran to when my parents fought, when my papaw died, when I just needed to get away. There was a swing in the tree by it. That swing is home too. I’d go there to feel free, to forget the world. I went there when Daddy cut my tree down because it was dead.
Home is a playhouse that was by the pool. I’d go there with my friends in the neighborhood. It was for “Girl’s Only”, but we still let Shane in. It is where my imagination ran free. It is where our names are still written in crayon on the walls and the ceiling. It is where the pool things are now kept. It is where many memories reside.
Home is a brick wall at the Country Club where my mother used to work. It is where Samantha and I were princesses. We were sisters and forbidden to go beyond the castle walls. We would sit on the wall, dreaming of what was beyond it, and planning our escape. It is where we were sure there was a ghost. We never proved it. It is where I would write sometimes, in my “Amelia’s Notebook.” It’s where Fatso 5 the hamster is buried in a matchbox. I gave him to Sam and he got loose and died. We held a funeral for him. We sang “Go Rest High on That Mountain,” what we could remember of it. The rest we made up.
Home is a trail behind my Grandmother’s house in Connecticut. Every summer, we’d go visit her and it was the first place I’d go to. I’d walk there with Dad and he’d show me the trees that he and Grandma planted when he was young. They seemed hundreds of years old to me. It’s where there used to be a pond and a cabin. Now there’s a wire fence and a water tower. My family would tell me about times “up at the pond.” I’d go up by the water tower and pretend to remember those times. It’s where my niece and I discovered edible clover – or so my father let us believe.
Home is several notebooks I’ve collected over the years. They contain my fears, my thoughts, and my stories. They are better than any medicine I have every found and they have never, never let me down. They are full of doodles and incomplete, incoherent sentences. They’re full of pages and pages of “Amelia + somebody.” If someone were ever to decipher my notebooks, they’d find a chronology of my boyfriends based on the names that replace the “somebody’s.” They are what I use to write my daily notes to my fiancé and my many notes to myself. They get more attention than anyone in my life ever has and ever will. They know more than anyone in my life ever has and ever will.
Home is driving around in my car in my little hometown with nowhere to go. I’d drive around until I didn’t know where I was or until the gas light came on. Windows down. Or not. Music all the way up – always. Disney soundtracks playing, or “feel good” music. It’s where I clear my head. It’s where I can be me and not have to answer to anyone. It’s where boredom is cured. It’s the only thing to do for fun in Paintsville, Ky. But most people stop and talk to other people. I don’t stop. I drive and sing and don’t worry about hurting people’s ears with my singing. It’s where I don’t care that I can’t sing or that I’m a bad driver. It’s where there’s no one to impress.
Home is the cart barns by the golf course. It’s where I went to meet someone when I was 16. I wasn’t supposed to be there. It’s where I sat for over an hour and talked without worrying about getting in trouble. It’s where I found out that there is absolutely no cell phone service there. It’s where I first kissed a person whom I shouldn’t have been kissing. It’s where I first kissed the only person I should have been kissing. It’s where I first kissed the person who would one day become the person I’ll spend my life with. It’s where I was wearing my white boots and he thought I looked like a skier. It’s where I had 17 missed calls. It’s where we always go back when we’re in town.
Home is the playground at the lake in my hometown. I share it with my best friend, Kendra. It’s where we swing and swing and swing for hours like we’re kids again. We didn’t know each other when we were little, but when we’re swinging, we have memories of being little together anyway. It’s where we catch up because we live hours away from each other now. It’s where twins ran up to us once and yelled, “That’s our swing!” It’s were many crisis have been solved. It’s where I always win the “who can swing higher” contest, even though Kendra never knows she’s competing. It’s where we got kicked out by a chubby man in a golf cart once. It’s where we go even in freezing rain because nothing matters when we’re there. It’s where we have cried and laughed together and where we have swung in silence that meant so much more than many conversations. It’s where we’ll go until we are no longer capable of swinging.
Home is still on my mother’s lap. No matter how big I get, I’m never too big to sit there. If I don’t feel good, or I’m tired, or I just miss her – I climb in her lap and lay my head on her shoulder. People around us laugh. We don’t care. She’s my mother. I’m her daughter. That’s all that matters.
Home is this little room I’m sitting in as I write this. The previous owners had it as a nursery. The walls are half-green and half-purple, with a hand-painted flower and heart boarder in between. I didn’t feel the need to paint over it. After all, I’m still a kid sometimes. It’s so ugly though. But I don’t mind. It doesn’t distract me. I turn on the light, look at pictures of my family, turn on the butterfly and flower ceiling fan, and write. It’s where my dogs knock over everything. It’s where all of my notebooks are. It’s where my stuffed animal bear is that I got for Valentine’s Day last year. It now wears a UK hat that was given to me in high school by a very special Australian that was going back home. It’s where my picture of a friend I lost a year ago is. It holds many memories. One day, it’s where my son or daughter will sleep. It will not be purple and green then.
Home is downstairs on the couch. Steven is on the long part, laying down, watching basketball, usually. Sometimes it’s Criminal Minds or NCIS. If not, I don’t pay attention. I’m sitting adjacent to him in the reclining part, working on homework or wedding planning. Our dogs are usually fighting. Sometimes, though, they are laying down somewhere in between us. Sometimes Harley, who is an English bulldog but thinks he is a toy poodle, is climbing on my lap and Walker is under the covers at Steven’s feet. It’s where I feel like a family and feel completely happy.
Home is where I can always go to when I need to forget the world around me. No matter where I am, it’s where I can go to feel safe and important, or to feel nothing at all. I am a part of my home and home is a part of me. Home is within me. It’s everything I’ve ever loved. Home, to me, is love.

Blogging Experience: Part 1

As I was researching recipes for a bake sell we are having at work, while simultaneously going through things I want to write about in my mind, I got a wild hair. On a whim, I started a blog. I have never had a blog short of a brief encounter with LiveJournal. I never read blogs. I don't, for the most part, understand them. But they seem interesting, so I'll give it a try. I'm not giving this blog a theme as of yet or promising daily, weekly or even monthly posts. I am a huge victim of procrastination. Most things I start have yet to be finished. When I finish something, the final product is usually a far cry from what the original idea began as. I'm still deciding whether to group this under my flaws or unique characteristics. I'll get around to that later. As for the blog title, it encompasses the one passion I have managed to maintain for 3/4 or more of my life, and a new passion that I hope will stick. I love to write and I love to cook. While I can only, with confidence, claim to be genuinelly skilled with the first, I thouroughly enjoy both writing and cooking, and hey, according to all the movies and idioms we idolize, that's all that matters, right?

As for posts, if I ever do them, I hope to aim them toward either my writing experiences/works or experiences with cooking. I have no secrets. If I make something horrible, and decide to make a post, I won't lie and say it was awesome. I am fully competent in my skills as a writer. As a cook, I am learning as I go. So hopefully one can help with the other, and vice versa. As for readers/followers, if there ever are any of you, thanks for wasting your time with me. I'll try not to let you down... but then again, I may forget I ever said that.
 - AC