When I was a kid, we lived in several different houses, and eventually left Wyoming for my dad’s new job in South Dakota. Each of those moves were made for good reason, and each new home brought new memories. Even so, I’ve always been a little envious of kids with roots deeper than my own. I always wondered what it would be like to be in the house I grew up in at Christmas, or how it would feel to still be best friends with the girl you met in kindergarten.
Most of the places I had as a kid don’t belong to me anymore. Except for one.
When we pulled onto Meebor Rd. earlier this month, I pointed out the canal. And the ranch sign! And the “lake” where we used to row ol’ Olive Oil!!! My excitement to be there with my husband for the first time was evident, and growing the closer we came to stopping. The smell of the house, the sound of each door, the set of glass canisters on the countertop—all were unchanged. The view from the front yard, the clothesline, the grit of dust settled onto my face—all left me feeling unchanged.
Obviously, the ranch doesn’t really belong to me, but it’s the most familiar place I have. The place that has known me the longest. And I hope to be back for Christmas.