There's No Place Like Home

I feel like Dorothy.  I love  my home, I have always loved it no matter where it was.  First there was the log house on the ranch, although it had no indoor bathroom, it was the place where I learned to dream.  I had a desk my grandpa made and I would sit and write or draw for hours, or I would lay on the lawn of fresh mowed clover and watch the clouds dance by with shapes suggesting wonderful things.

Then, my next real home was in Jouy-sur-Eure, France.  It was an apartment with unique features--like rolling floors, again, no bathroom, but there was a community one just outside the hall door.  But the most unusual thing was the stovepipe for the kerosene heater that went through the window pane.  I lived there for three years, and learned to value all the conveniences in America.

After moving around for a while, we finally settled in Phoenix, and the place that I have lived for 43 years.  It is a solid block home, now part of the barrio. At one time it was one of the more desirable neighborhoods on the West side.  But I enjoy the ethnicity of our block.  On a Sunday afternoon you can hear a mariachi band playing, enjoy the aroma of cookouts, and mom's calling to their children in Spanish.  I am the token white lady.