Twenty years ago today, my family and I moved to our present house. It's the twelfth of 15 different places I've lived- permanently or temporarily- in my 57 years, but it's the place I think of when I think of "home."
Well, that's not entirely true. Home, I discovered several years ago, is that place in my memory where my grandmother cooks Thanksgiving dinner, my kids open their Christmas presents, my father watches the Pirates, and where there's always a dog or cat nearby. That's what's neat about home. It's not a physical place, it's a state of mind. You can be home just about anywhere. The house- or houses- provide a place in which to accumulate those experiences, but it's like the difference between a fine merlot and the container in which it's stored. We remember the wine, not the wine botle.
Happy 20th, house. Thanks for the memories. And I promise to get around to cleaning out your garage any day now.
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