The other day I went to visit some elderly people from my home town that played a huge role in the first 10 years of my life, and even some time after. My memories of my home town have always been fond. We moved when I was 10, so my memories are almost like picture perfect fairy tales. I wasn’t old enough to remember or understand any of the bad things. We grew up next to a church in a parsonage. My sister and I were so close with the people in the church, that it felt as if we had a huge family. I hadn’t been back there for almost 2 years.

As I was driving on the highway to get there, I thought to myself “How silly of me to still consider a place I only lived for 10 years my home?” I thought I was somewhat stupid for always feeling sad when I’ve visited in the past, missing all of the good times in my past. But there were just too many memories – swinging on the tire swing in the field behind our house, playing kick the can around the church parking lot, sledding in the graveyard during snow storms, swimming in my best friend’s gigantic pool, playing in the river behind her house, amazing talent shows put on by my father and other eccentric people at my elementary school. As I drove down the back roads to my hometown all of this just came flooding back. I couldn’t help but be in that state again – just basking in the awesomeness of my childhood. Feeling like still, after 14 years, I still belonged there. Knowing where everything was and remembering exactly as it was so long ago. Of course so much has changed since then, and if I were to move back it probably wouldn’t be as I remembered it.

I used to get jealous of people who have lived in the same town all their life – like my husband. But now, after visiting as a 24 year old woman, I think I’m the lucky one. I don’t know if anyone else can say that their hometown and childhood was nothing but sunshine and roses for them. So I’m just going to continue thinking of it like that!

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