It All Started Quite Innocently...

It all started quite innocently, this affair of mine. I had never had an interest in working outdoors. I'm more of an indoor person. I've certainly never been able to take care of plants. Too many other things going on in my life. I was given an African Violet one year as a birthday gift from some colleagues of mine. Died within a week. The violet, not the colleagues. And my husband surprised me with a hibiscus once that managed to thrive in my kitchen window, despite my frequent inattention to the poor thing. I'd throw a little bit of water on it every now and then, and it managed to produce beautiful salmon colored blossoms. It's fate? Left on a doorstep for someone else to adopt when we left Germany.

We've only been in our house for a few months, so we're the new kids on the block. And as new home owners, I'm determined to keep our home looking nice. I certainly don't want to be the only people on the block with a run-down yard. Oh, sure the yard and plantings were in immaculate when we looked at the house in November, and even when we closed in December. The previous owner had had a gardener come by to keep the yard looking beautiful. I remember seeing him come by and spray the yard on the day we closed on the house. We would have no need for a gardener. When Hubby suggested pulling up all of the plantings and just replacing them with grass, I was agreeable. I had no attachment to those little multi-colored things surrounded by wood chips.

From the time our household goods finally arrived on the last day of February, until some time in April, I swear that it rained every day here. Not exactly prime weather for walking around outside and observing the changes in your landscaping.

But when the rains in Fresno finally gave way to springtime weather, I couldn't help but notice that the immaculately planned flower bed that had been so adorable when we bought our house was overrun with these spindly little flowery things that hadnt been there before. It was so bad that you couldn't even see the bright, colorful flowers that were supposed to be there. I glanced about nervously, convinced that the neighbors were glaring at us for allowing the yard to fall into such a state of disrepair. The flowers were still there, but I had barely noticed them in my frenzy to bring Crayola-like color to every surface inside the house.

So I reluctantly vowed to dedicate a precious day of my weekend to pulling weeds. I've never enjoyed outdoor chores. I would look for any way to get out of them that I could when I was younger. I preferred the cool air inside the house. And I'm so fair-skinned that I reluctantly go outside without at least SPF 5000.

When the weekend rolled around, I trudged outside with my five gallon bucket. I recalled seeing a small box sitting in the garage labeled "gardening supplies", so I pulled that out and unearthed my small arsenal of supplies that I had bought in a previous life in Alabama. I was mostly interested in the knee pad and gloves.

As I began pulling these alien entities from the flower bed, something strange overcame me. I really started paying attention to the plants that were supposed to be there. They were amazing! Bright pinks, purples, blues and yellows. I would later come to identify them as snap dragons and pansies. These small plants almost began to speak to me as I labored over them. We bonded...there was no way that my husband was going to pull them up to replace them with boring old grass!

The day labored on, and three five-gallon buckets full of weeds later, my flower bed had been restored to its former glory. I had put in many hours that day, bonding with my green little friends. I was so proud of what I had accomplished in getting rid of those unwelcome pesky weeds.

Now I happily dally in the front flower beds at least one day out of my weekend. I have come to enjoy getting to know each of the little plants that occupy space in my front yard. I've even gone so far as to declare all-out war against the population of snails and slugs in the yard and have devoted myself to saving my little flowery friends.

I am amazed at the satisfaction that I feel after spending time pulling weeds in the flower bed. Ive also learned that it is infinitely easier to pull them when they are a new growth, and not to wait until they've established little communities amongst my flowers.

This new hobby of mine is threatening to take over both my weekends and my pocket book. I've begun researching replacements for my pansies that have become too leggy for the yard. Im plotting a shade garden to run alongside the house, hoping that the weight of the containers will keep the neighbors Chihuahuas from digging through Hogans Heroes style into our yard. Im purchasing fragrant plants for the back yard and learning all about pruning and dead-heading. I'm even attempting to grow plants from seeds. My sunflowers are on day eight since planting and sprouting like champs!

I have grand plans indeed. If only I had the unlimited budget required to implement them. I hope to have fresh herbs for cooking, cat nip for the kitties, fragrant jasmine to please our noses and even vines to please the eye and cover up the fence by the patio.

I have yet to see the true color of my thumb...has the black thumb that I previously possessed been revitalized and turned green? Or am I only managing to keep up what a trained gardener started so many months ago? Only time will tell, but in the mean time, I'll enjoy bonding with my leafy little friends in the great outdoors

Defining Home

I am definitely more of a "homebody" than I used to be. Oh, I still love to travel, and lately suffer from a cabin fever of sorts, but the old adage remains true in my heart that there is no place like home.

But what is "home?" As my life progresses, my definition of home has grown along with me. I remember that as a young child, I could not imagine leaving my parents house. It was home as I knew it. The mid-sized ranch style house was never anything fancy, but the walls that surrounded me were the only walls that I had ever known. My parents built the house long before I, the youngest of five, was ever born. The land that surrounded us was family land. Where the river that bordered our property was now, years before had housed my grandfather's house, and was the site where my father and all of his siblings grew up. That homestead was long gone, the land purchased by the State of Florida to widen the river (okay, really its a bypass canal, but whatever). Grandpa Gay turned around and built a beautiful brick ranch rambler across the street from my fathers house, on the family homestead.

Growing up on our little dead-end road in Palm River, I was surrounded by family. I didn't realize how close we all were then...that is something that I discover only now as I look back. Living next door to my parents was an aunt and uncle (brother of my father) that no one in the family would speak with. Apparently, it had to do with a falling out over my uncle's wife. She has passed on in recent years, and he has been welcomed back into the family fold, along with his newer wife, whom I am told is much more sociable than my deceased aunt.

Across the street sits my late grandfather's house. I never knew him or my grandmother, but do have memories of my step-grandmother living there when I was very young. She moved to Alabama before I could really develop any concrete memories of her. I do remember the pink slippers that she knitted for me and my older sister, and the little brown jars in her living room that always had Mary Janes in them. Two of those jars now sit in my dining room hutch, a small token reminder of my youth.

Beside my parents house is a trailer park, once owned by family friends. There is a small grove of trees that obstruct the park from view and provide privacy, so often the trailer park is forgotten about. I remember taking my bicycle and spending hours riding through the trailer park's dirt roads. At the access to the trailer park from our little street is a house that the owners' daughter lived in, another old family friend.

Further up the street, where our little dead-end road connected with Palm River Road sat more family. To the right, my great-aunt's house. Next door to her was her daughter, and one more house down was her daughter's daughter. Then another entrance to the trailer park.

Catty-corner from my great aunt's house lived relatives of her husband, the Allens. Behind that house sat a great field, and on the other side of that field lived Mr. Allen's parents. Next door to them, Mr. Allen's sister and her family.

It was a safe childhood for me. Surrounded by family and family friends, my parents never had to worry about where I was. I could go outside for hours, and there was always a pair of watchful eyes on me. Running up to the corner store was no problem for me, even at a young age.

Home was always home. Even when I grew into my teenage years and began spending more and more time away with such freedom granted by having a car, there was always home...awaiting my return. But what had the concept of home become for me? Home was no longer defined as the little house in Palm River. With the addition of a vehicle in my life, the walls of home expanded to include everywhere that I went in Tampa. Friends' houses, the apartments of my (much) older boyfriend at the time. I had gained freedom with wheels, and my concepts were changing accordingly.

After high school, I went away to college. Gainesville was only a couple hours drive away, and I returned home almost every weekend. My parents saw little of me, as did the little house in Palm River. I spent my weekends and breaks with friends around town. Tampa embraced me warmly and lovingly, and I gave back just as much as the city gave to me. So much so, that my time in Gainesville only lasted two years. Homesick for my beloved home town and all that it had to offer, I left the sleepy little college town and dorm rooms behind to complete my college education at a community college in Tampa. Gainesville was too small for me...I needed a true city and that's what Tampa was.

Still, I grew even older and my circle of friends began to change and evolve. Now at the age of 21, my concept of home was changing even more and more. I was involved with Masonic youth groups, and ascended from holding local offices to holding state offices in some of them. Now I was traveling around the great state of Florida with more and more frequency. I was making new friends in the farthest corners of the state...Jacksonville, Miami, Pensacola, Daytona. My weekends and breaks began tying themselves up with travel around the state to attend various functions and hang out with my friends. Indeed, the walls of home had expanded even more to encompass an entire state.

It was in a sleepy little town near Pensacola that I met the person that I would eventually call Husband. A girl from the big little city of Tampa met a boy from the bigger city of Jacksonville and a friendship was formed. We would see each other around the state with increasing frequency and find ourselves ensconced in a tight circle of friends from all over the state. The gang from Tampa would meet up with the gangs from Jacksonville and the Panhandle almost every weekend under the guise of performing our civic duties for the youth groups, but we all knew that it was our tight friendship that brought us together so often. It was the summer of 97 (such a great summer) and we would all look forward to the coming weekends when we would meet in one of our cities across the state. Indeed, my concept of home now included many sets of walls and covered hundreds of miles.

At some point, the relationship between the Tampa Girl and the Jacksonville Boy evolved into a romance. Each step taken became more serious, and then one day out of the blue a phone call changed my life. After a year of alternating weekends and commuting between the two cities, Jacksonville Boy wanted to become Tampa Boy. He wanted to come on down to Tampa and find an apartment for us to live in. A place to make a home.

It was a bit of a shock...I was actually going to leave the little house in Palm River. It was true that increasingly over the past few years I had spent less and less time within its walls, but it was always home. Even whenever I bedded down within other walls, that little house was home. Now I was going to leave its walls for good...even if it was only to move five miles away.

We found our apartment, the new home, and furnished it with hand-me-downs and a hodge-podge of items that we both owned. We found that domestic bliss involved some compromises - we now had chores to share and bills to pay. Our little home was sparse, but cozy. The location was perfect. Nestled among many of the wealthiest homes in the area, but just down the street from a university, the apartments were old but affordable. We were on an island, almost an isolated community. People on the island moved at their own pace, and we immersed ourselves into that life style. And best of all, half a mile down the street was the home of my best friend, a home away from home. That would be a huge comfort to me when Tampa Boy's employer would see fit to transfer him to Maryland for an indefinite period of time, just eight months after moving in together.

Our tenure in that little apartment was short-lived. Less than a year after moving into that apartment, Maryland Boy decided to become Army Boy. The move involved a pay decrease, and the luxury of a two bedroom apartment was no longer feasible. Army Boy left to go do army things, and once our lease expired, I moved us into a smaller, cheaper apartment, just across the back alley from our formerly spacious home. Our new quarters never really felt like home, though. I was there alone...Army Boy would only reside there when he came home on a two week break. It was during that break that we married, and I transferred into my new role as Army Wife.

Indeed, the time spent in the home-that-was-not-a-home was to be short lived. A mere four months after moving in (but not unpacking everything), I broke the lease to move closer to my husband. In what was to be the most earth-shattering move of my life, I would be truly leaving my home. I would be leaving all that was familiar to me; my friends, my family, my beloved city. Indeed, even as far flung as the "walls of home" had been thrown to encompass the entire state of Florida, I would be leaving that as well. I would be moving to an army base in the foreign state of Alabama.

Home in Alabama was in a small city with not much to do. I found myself living in an almost abandoned community on base. The duplexes were old and most had been allowed to fall into a state of disrepair. Few were occupied, and in fact the entire neighborhood was slated for demolition shortly after we were due to depart. For eight months, our home was a three bedroom duplex that we dubbed "the crack-house" because of the state of the house and the neighborhood. We didn't share our unit with anyone. For a couple of months, we had neighbors in the unit next to us, across the street from us, and behind us. Time would see them all move away before we did - a pattern that we would find repeating itself for the next few years of our lives. Army Boy divided his time between the crack-house and his barracks room. I was miserable in our new home. It was difficult to adjust to this new army lifestyle. We no longer had free reign over our lives, and it was difficult for me to let that go. I fought it every step of the way in Alabama. I didn't like the city, the people or the area. I missed myhome...my home town and my home state. I never fully unpacked the house; we lived with boxes in the spare bedrooms and the living room for the duration of our time there.

We looked for escapes every chance that we got. I made two return trips to my beloved home town. We drove back to his home town for an extended weekend after his father had surgery. We found escapes in nearby towns, visiting Nashville and the Jack Daniels distillery. We even broke a few rules to get Army Boy out of town without a pass, just so that we could get away from the little town that was now home. When our eight months passed and the movers hauled away the last of our things to our next destination, I didn't even look back when we left. If I never set foot in that state again, it would be fine with me.

We were headed back to Florida for a temporary stay, and then we would be on our way to Europe, a new and mysterious life for us. All we knew was that we would be going to Germany. We wouldn't find out where we would be going until we arrived in Frankfurt. But there would be obstacles to overcome before we could get to our new destination. We would be homeless for at least a few weeks. Army Boy was taking a month of leave so that we could spend time with our families before departing across the Atlantic Ocean for destination unknown.

Unfortunately, to add to my ill feelings towards all things Alabama, the military managed to fumble our move to Europe. Army Boy's report date grew closer and closer and we still did not possess travel orders with my name on them. Eventually, he had to leave without me. It would be three more weeks before we would be reunited. Three weeks that I would spend shuffling from one place to the next. For the first time in my life, I was homeless. A huge feat to achieve, considering that I was in my home town and the virtual walls of my home had once encompassed the entire state of Florida.

Eventually, after shooting off an email to a Colonel at the army base in that wretched state of Alabama, I would find myself with an airline ticket to Germany in my hand. It was an exciting time...I was about to embark on a three year stay in my new home, a home that was surrounded by rich history and opportunities for travel.

My last night in Tampa was spent in the company of my large circle of friends that still included the core group from the summer of 97, but had seen the addition of new people over time. My life had changed to the point that I was growing away from all that had been familiar to me. My new life didn't quite mesh with my old life anymore. When I had moved away from Tampa, life there had continued on without me, and it stung me to realize that. My life would continue down one path, and things that I thought would never change did. I was holding on to my hope that we would eventually return to Florida. I was especially hoping for Tampa. How much would things change before that happened?

Arriving in a foreign country all alone was a bit intimidating. I knew that my husband would not be able to meet me at the airport, but someone from his unit would arrive to collect me and our cats upon our arrival. I waited out in the cold February morning air, watching the sun rise in this new foreign sky. Eventually, I was collected and chauffeured to my new home on a small base in an even smaller farming community. I entered the dwelling that would be home for the next three years of my life. It was hard to imagine this small shoebox of an apartment becoming home, but we managed. When our household goods finally arrived, and our mish-mashed furniture was finally situated, we settled into life in our new land.

Not having my friends and family around me forced me to look around my new life and take stock of what was available to me. If I had thought that Gainesville was too small of a city for me, boy was I in for a shock now! We were literally surrounded by farm fields for as far as the eye could see. Our little village had a guest house with a restaurant, a small bakery and a train station. We had to hop onto the train and head over to the next town to do any real shopping, and even that was a joke. Our village was so small that it did not warrant full train service. You had to plan your days so that you could be on the last train that let off in our village in the eight o'clock hour.

Still, we networked and made friends. The more time we spent in Germany, the more I found that the European lifestyle was agreeable. We learned our way around the countryside and found our way into the big cities. Eventually, we bought a reliable car, and that made travel easier on us. We branched out and visited many cities and countries. Every day made our time in that small shoe box a bit more valuable, and it truly did become a home to me. We lived in an apartment building, and bonded with some families that lived there. But alas, military life is a transitional one, and we found ourselves saying good-bye to friends with more and more frequency.

Eventually, our three year tour in the small shoebox was coming to a close. We found out that we were destined for Kentucky. While the new location would be a bit too close to our Alabama roots for my taste, we had at least been to the new destination before and knew what the surrounding area had to offer. I looked ahead with trepidation; not knowing exactly what the future holds scares me. I have a difficult time not being in control of a situation, and though our years in the military had forced me to come to terms with that, I still find it difficult to let go.

Alas, the army threw another wrench into the works. Army Boy's unit would be slated for a year-long tour in the sand box. The orders for that tour came down before our orders to leave Europe, so it appeared that we would be staying put for another year. Well, I would, anyways. Army Boy apparently had more traveling to do and I wasn't included on his itinerary.

So Army Boy departed to spend a year in the big sandbox, leaving me behind in the snowy and icy terrain of southern Germany. We had an entire year of being apart stretching out before us. But we were tough - our first year of dating was spent living apart. Even when we eventually moved in together, we worked opposite shifts and rarely saw each other. And then his job took him away, only to see him quit his job to come home and join the army and be taken away again. Our entire first three years together were spent apart, so one more year would be a cake-walk.

I busied myself on the home front. I worked full time and volunteered at the local theatre, taking a part in a production. The first three months of separation flew by. Then changes took place. I found myself in a new job in a new community. Participation in a physically active production at the theater took a toll on my body, and my fragile knee began giving me problems. It became more and more difficult for me to access our second-floor apartment that had been home for three and a half years.

With less than two years left to Army Boy's contract, I took a bold step and decided to move. I would pick up our home and transplant everything into a new home in a new community, even if we would only be living there for a year and a half. So one June weekend, I hired a moving team and we were on our way to a newer, bigger and better home in a larger community. I filled our new apartment with new furnishings, and worked hard to make it into a warm and comfortable home for Army Boy when he returned from the sand box. When my friends would come over and remark at how nicely the new apartment was furnished and decorated, it made me happy. I finally had a home that I could be proud of. I had done away with the mismatched furnishings and managed to pull together a cohesive area that people complemented.

But it never really felt like a home until Army Boy came back. And after a year apart, he did return. Our new apartment truly became a home once he was introduced into the picture. He acclimated to the new environment and the new furnishings. Even though I couldn't decorate as well as I would have liked due to the transitional nature of our lives, our home was furnished with love and warmth. We filled our time there with wonderful memories, and shared time with our friends.

Seven months later, it was time to move on again. After six years with the military, Army Boy was returning to civilian life. We were in for another move and it would soon be time to leave this life and establish another one. This wonderful country, which had been home to us for more than four and a half years, would be returning to its former status as a foreign land. It broke my heart to leave. Yes, we were returning to our home land, our home state even...but to do that we would have to leave the place that I had grown to love as home.

We returned to Florida. Our lives were again transitional. We had no jobs, no place to call home. We did not know where we would be settling, so we couldn't even begin to look for a place to establish a home. We were living with our families...homeless again. Eventually, I secured a job in my home town and began to assimilate myself into my old life as best I could. Here I was, almost thirty years old, living with my parents and three hours away from my husband. It was like I was back at square one. My car provided me my freedom, only now I wanted to spend time in that little house in Palm River. I had been away for so long, everything had changed. Nothing was the same as when I had left...life had gone on without me, and that scared me. How much longer would that little house and its occupants be there? My best friend was married now, with a child. Other friends had children...priorities had shifted. Changes had taken place in everybody's lives, and I had been so far removed from it all, living half a world away. I was beginning to realize how precious time truly is.

I couldn't help but feel that this life was only temporary. Frustratingly, I couldn't look into the future and see what it held, but I felt strongly that this was not it. I was finally home, but it didn't feel like home. I had learned to redefine my definition of home, and this version did not include my husband. I was isolated and anxious for the next stage in our lives to begin. Where would we go? Where would we live?

Those questions eventually found an answer. Hubby landed a job interview, and then a job, with a military contractor. Doors would open for us, but we would have to choose the one to walk through. Do we go to Missouri, California, Colorado or Vermont? Heartbreakingly, Florida was not an option. It looked like whichever we chose, we would be again separated from these strangers that we called family.

We made our decision and now instead of living half a world away, were only on the other side of the country - in California. This choice, though geographically the farthest from Florida, is the closest that we could have chosen to Florida. The city that we live in is a big little city, just like Tampa. There's plenty to do here, just like both Tampa and Jacksonville. The climate, though not quite as humid, is close to Florida. It is just as close to being in Florida as we might have been able to get.

There have been so many changes in our lives. Since truly leaving the safe cocoon of my first home, both the little house in Palm River and the great state of Florida, I have grown as a person. I am to the point that I don't even really think about where I am any more. I'm just wherever I am. Home has been so many different things...life in the nests provided by our parents, our little apartments that we've been in, the hotel room we lived in while awaiting closing on our very own house. All these places have been home. Its not the location that has been important, but what you take with you when you establish roots. And I'm not talking about physical possessions. While it certainly helps to make a place seem more inviting and cozy to surround yourself with things that are familiar, it's not the things that are important. It's the people. I can set up house anywhere and make it a home with just me, my husband and our pets.

I look around this home, with its familiar furnishings and photos suspended behind glass on caramel walls, and try to envision our future. I can't though. The past six years have taught me that the future changes every day, and you can't tell for sure what will happen. You don't know where youll be in five years, ten or twenty. How long will this house, this city, this state be home? I don't know. The concept of home encompasses so many things. It's not so much a place as what you take with you and establish once you arrive.

As I sit at home, in its most recent incarnation, and look around at all the familiar things that we have accumulated over the years and things that we have bought specifically for this house I am struck with how I now view my life. I am truly happy and comfortable. I have my health, my husband and our critters. We form a family that is filled with love and warmth, and that is what has made this house a home. When I close my eyes and envision myself in my "happy place," that place is no longer us settled into some imaginary house in Tampa. That was my happy place for so long. Now that place is the back patio of our home. Our home here in California.

Not bad for a girl that couldn't picture herself ever leaving her beloved home.