I can’t explain it.

Over the last fifteen years, I have lived in eleven - yes thats right, eleven - different places.  One dorm room.  One fraternity house.  Two rented houses.  Three apartments.  Three homes that I have owned.  Then, the one place that was, is, and probably always will be home.

I have learned to sleep almost anywhere.  I once slept one whole semester on the floor of one of my graduate school classmates floors.  I have camped in Death Valley.  My first job out of college, I lived in an apartment that had a folding chair, a folding table, and a sleeping bag for furnishings.

But I have yet to sleep quite as well as when I’m at home on the farm.

I’m not sure if it is the air, the water, the surroundings, or just thousands of memories that fill space and time as I walk through the doors.

This is the house that my Great Uncle Charley built with his own hands.  The house that my father built onto.  This is the house that has seen each of us children carefully carried into as our first home.  It is the house where my parents lived, where my mother died.

It has seen some of the happiest times of my life, as well as some of the most tragic.

It is the repository for our families past, both in memories as well as in actual historic items…or scars.

That spot by the window?  That is where the plant pole shot into the wall - narrowly missing my brothers head…

That mark on the door frame?  Where we were measured.

The flat spot on the carpet?  Where we used to pound our feet on the floor to make Dad think we were out of bed for morning chores.

The green hue to the paint?  What we once thought was the perfect color for a bedroom, but now can’t seem to cover up.

I’m not sure why, but I always seem to sleep a little better.  Rest a little more easy.  Be a little more at peace.

Don’t ask me to explain what it is.  The scent of the fresh night air through the windows in summer, the crisp air between the car and the door in winter, or the fresh smells of spring?  The sound of the wind in winter, the frogs in the summer, or the rain taping on the roof in fall?  Is it the feel of the cold north wind in the winter through the cracks around the windows or the stiffling heat in the summer?

The memories of the Christmas’ or Easters’ or Thanksgivings’ or Babtisms’ or Confirmations’?  Of our family living together?  Of my older brothers and how much we fought…but also how much we care for each other?  Of my little sister - her bratty little moments…but also the times when she was so darn cute and endearing.  Of my parents, how they taught us to live, and love, and laugh, and cry, and pray, and die?  Or the hundreds of friends and neighbors and relatives that have always found a welcome repose inside the humble door.

When I’m at home, the world is a little less harsh.  The dreams get a little bigger.  I’m always raring to run out the door and back into the world and conquer…but it is always good to have a place to go back and lick the wounds of the world as well….and remember what life is truly about.