It was a frenetic couple of days as my son, his wife, and daughter and I chased around trying to do as much as is feasible in two short days. Getting caught in a really, really bad traffic jam wasn’t planned, but happened anyway. We went one tenth of a mile every half hour which provided plenty of time to eye all the surrounding traffic. People chatted with each other or those in nearby cars saying hello or just getting to know each other. No horns honked, nobody fussed, it was a moment of harmony among us all that said we can wait, no big thing.
There were tons of teens piled haphazardly in trucks and truck beds. Their laughter and camaraderie apparent as they waited with the rest of us. One truck even had a recliner and the requisite Confederate flag flying. So, it was on that beautiful, sunny Saturday that we all chatted and laughed at those who could walk from their hotel to the stores and back home before we could escape the traffic.
These two days were a gentle reminder of how good life can be and the rewards of putting one foot in front of the other plodding through long, mind numbing days. It was at home while folding laundry as my son cooked steelhead trout for dinner and I listened to the quiet patter of word and song as my daughter-in-law settled her fussy daughter that realization dawned on me. This house had become a home to my family. But it wasn’t the furnishings, the photos sitting around, or the peaceful beauty of the mountains that made this place a home.
Rather it was us and what is in us, those binding strands of love and devotion that wraps us in a place of comfort, a solid rock to lean on and return to for that fulfillment that no other place can provide. This is the place that will always be in my grandchildren’s memories. This will be “grandma’s place” that they will tell their children about. But it won’t be the house they will talk about, it’ll be the people and things that we as a family have done. Home—a really good four letter word.