My husband had some studying to do on Saturday so I decided to pack up the little rascal and I and head North 36.2 miles to the small town I grew up in to see my parents and my younger, prettier sister. Their house is set back off the road in the middle of five acres, you can't see the house from the road unless it's fall and the leaves are gone. It looks even more beautiful now that I don't live there, because when I did live there I found it peacefully scary at times. I even saw a ghost once, no joke. It was a lady ghost. A younger lady wearing all white, carrying a white cat. I'll swear to it until the day I die. We live in the city now but I love the fact that I can bring my son to the place I grew up and let him experience the simple joys in life. Where everyone is family, you know people by their first names, the only time anyone wears a suit is when there is a funeral, there are more trucks than cars, and everyone says y'all. It's home. It's warm and lively. It's quiet and boring. It has definitely become one of my favorite places since growing older. On Saturday we went to our favorite hot dog joint, Coney Island, we rode the four wheeler, we walked out back and admired Pop Pop's motorcycle and big fan, and we rode in the back of Pop Pop's pick-up truck.
...and we enjoyed every second of it.
This is your reminder to go home.
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