lol....Well as of right now I am temporarily located in Saskatchewan. My car is silver/grey, with grey interior. Also has a Sask. license plate.
Hey, Saskatchewan is a huge province. We were only on a very narrow strip of VIA RAIL track across your province. But, hey, the scenery across Canada was beautiful.
Sounds like Kerver's quite a gypsy in that Tempo (I have fond memories of the Tempo from my younger days!).
Deb -- how great to have a park across the street from your place. From your description, it sounds like you have a thoughtfully welcoming home.
Yes, numbers do tend to crash the quiet, and quiet is essential to "home" as well, I think. It's quiet around here when we don't have drop-ins. Sometimes drop-ins bother me, and hubby and I roll our eyes at each other in exhaustion, but it seems to get a little "spiritually musty" in here after periods with no drop-ins. So, we think of it as essential. We have a couple of single friends who get a little lonely in their solitary living, who come by for home-cooking and company, and remembering those days myself, it's nice to try and repay Karma.
Oh yeah, joenation's post about the phone number (and the poem made me cry) -- some friends recently moved "home" to Tulsa from Colorado, and the female part of the couple was able to get the same telephone number that she had as a kid. I never thought about something like that being homey, but it was apparently something that her sisters had tried since their dad died, and this woman finally succeeded in getting it. Kinda cool...
Liberty, Never heard about getting one's old telephone number back. From our perspective, we'd rather not, because of all the crank calls we were getting with our old number. We're now unlisted.
c.i., yeah, that's me too -- unlisted!
Margo:
Not just "another" bunny, but a playboy bunny. Nice to meet you though.
watch out fer little bunny rabbits!!!
margo, I think there's a competition going on between cats and wabbits.
I'll take a playboy bunny and cat woman please lol
I read the opening statement and felt compelled to go ahead and answer without browsing any of the responses.
Home is wherever my wife and children are. Family, if you have one of your own, defines home, not geography.
Hi CI and Dlowan.thank you for your welcomes..sorry for the laaaatee reply.
Cheers !
Crash.
GROW wherever you are planted
I have dreams alot that I am trying to get home. Not a literal place just away from where I am in the dream.
My home now is filled with things and stuff that I like. All these possessions. My home needs some work, but it is now my home, and if God wills it for me, perhaps I can remain here and be HOME.
Thanks Crash!
I hope so too, Ruach!
Let me offer up some detail of where "home" has been for my 68 years on this planet. Until I was six years old, we lived in a two room apartment, upstairs from a bar in the Japanese town of Sacramento. From six to ten, we lived in the Tule Lake concentration camp in Northern California, where our home was a one room 'apartment' of a four room barracks made from tar paper and wood. Our room had four beds and a pot belly stove to warm us during the winter months. After we returned to Sacramento after the war, we lived in hostels where many families lived in one house. The first one had about five families with children where the women and children slept in the living room, and the men slept in the other rooms. After about two years, we moved to the Buddhist Church hostel, where our 'apartment' was a classroom separated by army blankets. We had two stalls for our family. When I was about 16, we moved into our 'first' real home, but I left home at the age of 17 to finish high school in Oakland, California. After a short visit 'home,' after graduation from high school, I took a bus to Chicago, and lived there for a couple of years. My 'home' was a small room that barely held one bed, and my job was working as a biller at a wholesale company. I was barely surviving. After two years, I decided to volunteer into the US Air Force. After my basic training at Parks AFB in California, I was stationed at Travis AFB in California, Ben Guerrier AFB in Morocco, and Walker AFB in New Mexico. I again moved back to Chicago, and lived in another one room apartment with a kitchenette, and also shared an apartment with a friend for a few months. During my second summer in Chicago, I drove back to Sacramento on vacation, and found my contemporaries going to college. I decided to do the same, so I quite my two jobs in Chicago, and started going to college. I lived in somewhat better accommodations to call 'home,' but it was always a struggle working full time and going to school full time. I was working as a teletype biller for a freight company, and they asked me to move to Oakland, so I did, and continued my college education. After a short while, I met a guy who was living with about five other guys, and asked if I would like to share an apartment, so that's what I did. That christmas, my roommate invited me to go to a party in San Francisco. That's where I met my future wife. We married about 18 months later, and rented a nice apartment in Oakland. I was still going to school and working. She was a nurse, so she found a job at a hospital in Oakland. From there, it was all uphill. We bought our first new home in Fremont while I was still going to school. After I graduated from college, I worked for Florsheim Shoe Company as a traveling auditor in the seven western states. After 3.5 years, they promoted me to audit manager, so we had to move to Chicago. We had a new, 3 bedroom home built in Naperville. It was made from brick and cedar, and we had a basement. After three years, we moved back to California, and bought our home in Sunnyvale. We have now lived here since 1970, so I guess this is finally "home."
Yep, CI, you have been through a lot and worked hard. Good home to you.
Home indeed, CI!
I moved around heaps as a student - which I was for 9 years. Initially horrid places, then slightly better. Did not buy my first place until I was 39 - now in my second "owned" place.
It makes a difference, I must say.
When I was about five we began living on a lot in Calwa, which is adjoined to Fresno in California. My step father had made the down payment and then constructed a garage sized cabin for the six of us to stay in until he could build a house. Across the main road was a cotton seed processing plant and behind us was a train switching yard. Down the main road, past some industrial tanks that had great ponds of polluted water around them, was the railroad worker's camp, lived in by a group of Pima Indians. Taking the road in the other direction led to Calwa proper. It was close enough to home that I walked it to school every day. There were subdivisions to the left, but a cow pasture to the right. The populated side of the road was lined with oak trees, producers of the largest acorns I have ever seen, and as many sycamores. Our property was covered with "goat's head" sticker plants, and populated with numerous hills of very large red ants. We went barefoot from the first, eventually walking to death the stickers and causing most of the ants to relocate or perhaps die out. Mom planted castor beans where people usually put flower beds, because, in that desert earth they demanded little care and never needed watering. It was the first time I ever felt at home in any place. There we watched steam engines gradually get replaced by diesels, saw the street before us (mason Street) get paved for the first time, watched the houses getting built all around us. I made my first acquaintance outside the home when one family built a stucco house on the corner of Mason and the main road. The boy was somewhat spoiled and hot tempered. He took to wanting to fight every time I contradicted any of his words. Having no knowledge of how to attack one properly, he began to windmill his arms and run full steam at me. I, being equally unsophisticated, windmilled back untill I had slapped him around enough to make him run home to his mama. He and his whole family turned out to hold grudges. They secretly taught the boy to box. One day as I walked past his home he stopped in front of me. Still under the delusion that we were friends, I greeted him with a smile. He immediately began punching me in the belly with both fists. Shocked, I just stood there. Then his mother came from around the house and took the boy inside. The boy never came out in the yard again. My older brother became a blood brother to one of the Indians and spent most of his free time at their camp. My step father's house progressed to the point that two walls stood, with the siding already on them. One day we packed up and moved to Campbell, near San Jose and Los Gatos. I felt the kind of loss that lasts a lifetime.
