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.