When I was growing up, I lived in this beautiful white house that my dad built. Since living there I have moved around a lot, so much so when someone asks me where I am from, it feels as if it is a loaded question. However, when I think of home, I think about that two story house that had big bay windows that let in the light we all take for granted when we are of a young age, and sat on the prettiest patch of land this side of Missouri. That's where I grew up, developed my taste for the outdoors and love of adventure. It is where my imagination couldn't be contained; every trail, every blade of grass, every rolling hill was my playground.
I almost missed a time in the world where it was simple. Before we all had cell phones, or laptops, or iPads, or whatever. I got to grow up in a time where your parents would kick you out of the house in the morning at 8 o' clock, and you didn't come back inside until the sun was going down. The world where you drank from the water hose, ate blackberries that were warmed by the summer sun, your best friends were the two dogs that followed you around with a devotion I have yet to see in any person. Yes, those were the times that truly everything was simplest and you never had to worry about anything but what you were going to do that day.
Growing up there was magical, and I haven't even gotten to the best part. It wasn't the dirt bikes, the dune buggies, the dirt roads, or the delicious blackberries. No. The best part was jumping out of bed, with the excitement only a child could have, walking out the back door and making the two and a half mile journey to a small creek that lived in the woods. When you would wear clothes that nearly ragged, and maybe, shoes. The best part was when the air finally got warm enough, and your mom couldn't tell you it was too cold to go into the water (though if you were anything like me, you "accidentally fell in" at least a hundred times before summer actually arrived). The best part was the water. It was what you could find there, how long you could follow it, and discovering that it never ended. Something I never really appreciated until I had gotten older, that's when you discover all things have an end, even the best stuff. This creek would save us from school days, for, the only way you could get to, well anywhere from my house, would be to take dirt roads. Each with at least one low water bridge. When it rained, the water would roll over those bridges; it would stand up, lay down, twist, and dance. An impossible obstacle that no one dared venture through, but instead would stand back in awe and watch the water.Those were the days I prayed for rain; rain made mud, and it meant more water.
I'm nearly 21 now, and those days, living in that house, well they are far behind me. So is that feeling, of just, being home. Sad right? However, life has offered me a type of time machine that caught me off guard.
In every new home, in every new place I ended up in, there's one thing I could always count on to bring me back to life. Water. Any creek bed, lake, pond, or ocean. If I could find a place that had water, well, I could relive in my mind what it is like to be seven years old again. Something about the way the crickets sing, or the way the moon gives you a reflection on water's unbreakable surface, something about the way the wind picks up off of the ripples, and the smell of fish and moss, sends me back in time. If I can find a place to put my toes in the water, I can find peace. If I can sit on the roof of my car and hear the sounds, or smell the smells; I can find a piece of my soul. If I can find water, I can find my way back home.
