Home of My Heart

Home of My Heart

600 Words


    As a child or adult, most people have encountered one or more places that were more special than anywhere else.  A place so wonderful, that it fed their souls and gave them memories of a lifetime.  Somewhere so perfect that they hoped it would never change and always be within reach.  This is mine.   
   
    Seven miles from the nearest town, my grandparents lived deep in the wetlands of the Michigan woodland.  Their modest homestead, set in the middle of the state forest, included a swamp of deep, mucky holes amid the massive, tangled roots of stately pines.  When walking through the woods you often stepped in one of these holes releasing the putrid smell of swamp gas.  The wildlife, common to this region, moved quietly among the trees following familiar trails searching for food.  Occasionally you saw a bear or deer wander out of the woods and stand in the middle of the road with little concern for being seen.  The country was wild and unsettled and a perfect fusion of survival and effortless beauty.  It was enchanting.  It was the home of my heart.

    A sign bearing the name “Texaco” stood out front near the state road beckoning customers to stop in and refuel.  The gas station was built with concrete blocks painted white and the flat roof made the building look short and squatty.  Convenient to the locals as well as the out-of-town travelers it was remembered for the polite service and conversation.  Regular customers received a discount of two cents per gallon of gas as an incentive to return and take time to rest near grandfather’s desk.  One gentleman brought his banjo and played for anyone who would listen while others brought news from around the area, told stories and reminisced. 

    Their home was an unassuming, twenty-five foot travel trailer situated behind the station.  It was a study in micro-sizing a home into a simple and efficient method of living, where less was more.  The meager furnishings served dual purposes.  The drop leaf kitchen table stored table linens and dish cloths and served as a chopping block.    The Davenport, like a modern futon lounge, converted on pivoting hinges from a sofa to a bed.  Beneath the seat were extra pillows and blankets.  Storage cubicles were above and below both beds.  Privacy for the bathroom and bedrooms was achieved by opening closet doors.  Everything was useful and systematic.

      Beside the trailer was a pond.  It was small and round surrounded by grass and magnificent weeping willows.  Their low hanging branches gave shade and a measure of privacy to anyone resting below.  There were hundreds of frogs and toads of all sizes that plopped into the water if you came too close.  Trout hurled themselves out of the water to catch bugs on the water’s surface during the day.  At night they jumped and splashed under a light hung out over the water.  Mallard decoys often attracted pairs of ducks taking a rest from migration.  They would appear in the morning, stay all day and disappear that afternoon.

      This was a tranquil, simple place.  Every summer I made my pilgrimage from suburbia to find life as it should be; quiet, peaceful and calm.  There was a season for all things and the discipline of nature was full of grace and patience.  It’s gone now, like my grandparents.  I no longer visit and though I live in a wooded area of my own and try to live as simply as they did, it’s not the same.  It was the home of my heart, second to none, and it was superb.