I can't find my black sewing scissors. I have had them since I was twelve. I am sure I still have them, somewhere; I just can't seem to locate them. I told #2 yesterday that the scissors are just waiting for us to move. I will find them in something when we move.
Now before all of my friends and family get in an uproar, no, I have no current plans for moving. It is just the way I live. Hubby and I have moved so many times that moving is a part of me. I remember moments and events based on where I lived at the time. I remember my friends in the living rooms we inhabited when we were together.
Oddly, though, I consider home the family farm where I mostly grew up. Purchasing the farm from my grandparents when I was six, my parents have been there ever since. It is where I go when I want to feel at home. It is the place of family celebrations, memories, quiet times, and me. It is who I am.
Last night I discovered that the address for my home place has changed. In order to aid the 911 emergency system, roads had to be given names, and houses had to be given numbers. Before a rural route would suffice, now it no longer works.
The coal mines have moved into the area as well ,and I am told that the long, rocky drive to the house is completely remade. It is suggested that I won't even know it when I get there this summer. But I don't believe it.
Times change. People move. But home is home forever. Perhaps people need new help finding it, a new address, a new roadway. Still there is only one way to the Father and Mother, and it leads Home every time.
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