Friday is the 4th of July–a time for appreciating our freedoms. One thing that we often take for granted is the sanctity of our homes. As I grow older, I think more about how grateful I am to live in our own abode with my husband, Ken. When I return from a vacation or a grueling day out and about, I sigh with relief when I walk through our door again. I cast off the public clothes and shoes I’m wearing and don a comfortable leisure outfit. We lock our doors. No one enters unless we invite them.
When I was nineteen, legally an adult, I complained my parents were too controlling. They responded with the saying, “You put your feet under our table, you abide by our rules.” I had an office job in Rockford and daydreamed about moving out on my own. I made the change, but not in the manner I fantasized. I spent five months living in a tuberculosis sanitarium. The institution was well-run. I had a room to myself but my day was laid out for me. I had no choice in the time I arose in the morning, the meals I ate and when they were served, one to two in the afternoon was naptime and all patients went to bed at ten p.m. The hours family and friends could visit me were limited. It surprised me how excited I was to return home.
Mentally, home is where many of my memories reside. My parents rented farms instead of owning the property. Only one of the five places I lived while growing up remains standing and my parents have been gone for many years. Still, I remember the rooms in the houses, the barns and the life our family led when we resided there. Those flashbacks are joined by remembrances of our own family created in the two places we have lived.
Do you appreciate the freedom of living where you call home?