Home is where the heart is, but only if love’s there too.

Summer days so lazy I don’t even bother to put on regular clothes, just wander out by the water’s edge with a towel & a book, Jack Johnson’s magical guitar strumming in my ears.

There, by the dock, pool steps, or river’s edge, I let my mind wander, not caring if it returns or not. Let my consciousness have the day off. Let her drift through the courts of King Arthur, ride along side Ivanhoe and Rebecca, try her hand at chess with Charles Wallace, and shoot with Robin and Will Scarlet.

There, my nerves revel in the sting of the hot pavement on my feet, the warmth of the sun’s light on my skin, and the breeze ruffling the pages of my book, tangling in my hair, and causing goose bumps up and down my limbs. Those hours of escape from reality, where my book is as real as my sister standing in the kitchen, and my mother in the garden, are paradise.

This is my Kingdom of Summer, my Camelot. My knights are the books at my side, my Excalibur, the stories and words barricaded in my mind, my imagination, my Merlin, guides my arm as I battle sloth, boredom, and lethargy that threatens to weigh my limbs down, paralyzing me.

Give me two thousand words and I will visit more places than you could ever imagine. Shangri La, Middle Earth, Narnia, a party at Gatsby’s, the dusty road along side Huck and Tom, Treasure Island, and Uriel, mark them all on my passports. I’ve visited them more times than I can count. There, forever walk and wander the friends of my childhood, the companions of my youth.

My home is found between the pressed pages of any book I open, the path to my door in the lines of black-inked words, repeated by the dozens. The yellowed pages of old favorites form my hearthstone, and the worn bindings and book covers make the roof. Their familiar syllables and voices trapping my heart in their embrace once more.


After all, home is where the heart is, but only if love is there too.

Not country roots–HOME roots

I suppose that a bit of a back story is needed before you can fully understand what the hell this post means.
I’m from Kansas- the Lenexa/Olathe side of Kansas City, but I’ve lived in the ‘burbs of Missouri since I was 4.
I don’t consider myself “country” and no, i’ve never owned a horse or had an accent. My “accent” sounds just like the newscasters on any television station you listen to.
I’ve always hated the term ‘redneck’ – I’ve found it demeaning. ‘country’ I’m fine with, but I prefer ‘we just have more common sense than most.’
I’m a midwestern girl through and through: I drive stick, I love the smell of cattle & corn & dust. Gravel roads are where I’m from. Summer is made of sprinklers and lemonade stands and weekend trips to grandma’s farm where we’d feed the cows & ride on grandma’s tractor.

Fall means bonfires, grilling out every week, the roar of the football stadium and playing tag-football with the neighbor boys down the street.
Winter means ice, ice and more ice.
It means going through more clothes in two days than you usually do in a week because you go sledding after school.
It means chapped noses and cheeks, and cracked knuckles and cold hands. Winter means stocking up on firewood because the power lines might break with the weight of the snow.
It means the cows get their winter costs, so they look like a child’s drawing-all fuzzy and warm.
The Midwest means practicality before popularity.
Our ancestors worked to survive, not survived to work.
It means stopping for a stranger stranded on the highway just because you have AC and their car overheated.
It’s making eye contact with strangers just to say “good morning”
It’s home