Family: the ones that take you in

"Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in."

This line from Robert Frost's poem "Death of a Hired Hand" has lingered in the back of my mind like a distant, but constant, shadow of the meaning of home.

Reading it as a young person, I resisted its tone of despair, its sparse, cold realism. Home was so much more than that, I objected. It was love, acceptance, security, comfort, peace of mind.

As I grew older and moved from place to place, I found that home was really a state of mind and being. Often, however, there was a place that felt like home more than some of the others.

For me, it was our home in Graham, North Carolina. My parents never actually ever owned this quaint two story built in th 1940's, but that made no difference to us kids. The house was situated on three acres adjoining another ten, complete with a run-down horse shed, dilapidated garage, neglected pastures, gorgeous flowering cherry trees, camellia bushes, gnarly apple tree, scuppernong grape vines, and several towering pecan trees. The grassy backyard stretched out before us like a long invitation to the blissful outdoors.

Two hemlocks stood like ghostly giants in the front, shielding our sanctuary from the busy street below. Kmart and the interstate were less than a mile away, but when we pulled up into our driveaway, the rest of the world disappeared.

It was the perfect grandmother's house to go and visit, but we got to live there for three years. We plucked blackberries, battled foxes, coons, and wild-eyed barn cats. Our family planted a large vegetable garden in one of the small tree-lined pastures and enjoyed a marvelous harvest.

Inside, the plaster walls and hardwood floors took us back in time. A clawfoot iron bathtub in my upstairs alcove bathroom became a private retreat. My brothers set up a train table in the loft. My little sister had a walk-in closet that became the shelter for nesting birds. In my brothers' room, we peeled back layers of old wallpaper that dated back to the house's World War II era origins.

We loved that house. It was a place where we built so many special memories. For a time, we kids enjoyed a respite from the rest of the world. And we knew, that when we left to go to school or work or church, when we "had" to return, they "had" to take us in. Not because duty obligated them. No, love obliged them to. And the result was all that home really means: peace, security, comfort, acceptance, and unconditional love.