Intruder Alert

The other day, while I was at work, I received a phone call -

Mrs. Kel, we've received a signal that your house alarm is going off, would you like for us to call the police?

I rushed home that day, fear and anger cursing through my veins. How dare someone choose to violate our house, our stuff -intrude without being invited. I was mad, but not because our 'things' might be gone, but because the thought of irreplaceable things, like our photos(on my computer) or little token mementos the hub has given me might forever be lost.

In that space, fueled by my own blinding rage I ripped open the door to my house and proceeded to inspect each room like a mad woman. I'm not sure what I thought I would find or even if I'd really thought thru what I would do if I did find someone (perhaps threaten them with my cell phone) but I did not find anyone and everything looked just as it did when we left that morning.

That morning I lost a little innocence, my false sense of safety and yet I gained an insight into a part of me I had never seen before.

I've worked hard for what I have today. The hub and I have worked together to build a comfortable life for our family and while there are things I would be sad to see gone, material things that can be replaced, I know that my families safety is what matters most. In that brief moment, knowing my family was safe despite everything else that might have taken place was what mattered.

And well...now I know my weapon of choice if ever caught off guard is most likely my cell phone!

Do you remember your first thought in a panic?

Holiday Memories

When the weather turns, the air gets crisp and fall comes to a close, I find myself fumbling thru memories of my childhood. Time has clouded much of the early years, but there are things that have left lasting impressions on me to this day.

One thing I remember most clearly was the smells. My mother was a homemaker and she was always crafting something, but this time of year brought about tamales, which are a staple where I grew up. Tamales are a very time consuming process - it takes HOURS to cook the meat (pork, chicken , beef) and then season it to perfection. Masa must be made, corn husks must be soaked, the tamales must then be assembled and rolled just so and then the finished product needs to be steamed for a few more hours. Dozens upon dozens would be made, sorted and wrapped for delivery during the holidays and these were primarily only made during the 'cooler' months in hell (november/december.) Each day I would arrive home from school to find pots of meat on the table, steamers on the stove full of tamales and my mother covered in masa as she continued to make more. The house would be warm from the cooking going on in the kitchen (no we did not have central heat back then, only a little space heater) and you could smell the food long before you even opened the front door.

I may not live that far south, but this is a tradition I have brought with me wherever I go. Just a few weeks ago I cooked up a batch of tamales for the family and friends - it was so very time consuming, but so yummy too. The change of seasons just makes me want to cozy up in the kitchen and cook.

Another memory I smile at during this time of year is the decorating for the holidays. I can remember the day after Thanksgiving going out in the garage and digging out all the boxes of christmas stuff. Decorations (mismatched and mostly handmade), multicolored christmas lights that played music for the tree, patchwork quilts, cross-stiched wall decorations and tinsel by the handfuls would be spread about the house in hopes of brightening everyones spirits.

Outside I would loveingly adorn our 'Lone' tree and massive bush with strands of lights from years past. Some would blink, some would stay solid, some were 'tiny twinkle' lights and some were the old school 'screw in light bulbs.' Rarely was anything uniform, it was typically som type of incoherant christmas mess, but it was as festive as a childs imagination could make it.

One of my more funny decorating memories is the year I decided to decorate my fathers 1976 Chevy Pickup truck that took up permanent residence curbside in front of our house. This truck had easily lived thru better years and my father would not part with it. It was loud (could hear him coming down the road 6 blocks away) had an am radio, windows that didn't always roll down (manual crank) and often times did not want to start. That season, it found itself parked and I decided (in my youthful wisdom) that it should be decorated. So I tied ribbons and bows to it, wreaths to the front and back, garland (cheap, non weather resistant garland) along the sides and then took shoe polish and wrote "Merry Christmas" upon the windows. It was definitely a sight to behold...but one thing about my parents is that they never said a word.

The memories I have are more than items bought for me - they are experiences that I was fortunate enough to have. Childhood goofiness I was able to relish in and little moments that have stuck with me thru the good and bad. I look back now and realize that while there weren't family traditions instilled in me(singing christmas carols around the tree), fancy family vactions to look forward to each year, or expensive presents to adorn the tree - my holiday memories are none the less happy. Yes, perhaps there are those memories that have been tarnished with time and perhaps still, some have been broken or lost - but I can say that the ones that meant the most to me have stuck with me thru the years and can be dusted off each time I need a smile. I just hope that I can help my own children to have the kind of memories they too will look back fondly on one day.

What is YOUR Holiday memory?

Home

A conversation took place between a myself and a friend that resulted in me making a statement that caught me by surprise.

The conversation was about someone else who had recently returned back to area they they spent a lot of time and energy trying not to live - the area considered 'home.' I responded with, "It's funny really, how much time we spend in our youth trying to get out only to find as we get older that it's not so bad after all and we want back in."

It may not sound like an odd statement, but for anyone who knows me (or reads this blog) you know that I refer to my home town affectionately as "hell." Hell - was the name I chose, not because it more often than not feels like it due to the weather and not so wonderful climate, not because its flat and half a year empty farmlands look sad and lonely, not because when at first observation - it looks as if the economy has forgotten about this part of the world - but because the memories I have growing up, growing into my own are my own personal hell.

I am a 'pleaser' - I like 'pretty' things and am most comfortable when calm and love fill the air(yes I know how strange that sounds). I did not live like this in hell - in fact, calm and love were there, but in bits and pieces. I was born and raised in this tiny town - where everyone knew everyone else's business, kids played randomly with neighbor kids all day long without a care and front doors were left unlocked to come and go as we pleased. There was not a movie theater or big restaurant in town - our nearest form of entertainment or mall was 45 minutes away so we took to entertaining ourselves in other 'not so productive' ways. (insert cow tipping here) I grew up in a small 2 bedroom home that I spent most of my school years in, with a couple of people I would consider my 'friends' and the rest people with whom I had to attend school and often times be the center of their gossip.

I wasn't a radical, I wasn't the bum, I wasn't the popular chick, I wasn't so many things - but I was me - a teenager trying to find her voice in a sea of so many others and unfortunately it is a dog eat dog world out there so when I finally got the chance to leave there, I packed what I could carry and was gone, vowing never to return.

Over a decade has passed since I 'lived' there, but I still visit because my family is there. My visits are brief and often haunted by things I'd rather not remember, but I find that as I get older, "home" is a little less painful and a little more of a place where I came from instead of a place I am trying to escape.

I've traveled many places in this great big world and I've realized that it really isn't so big after all. Yes, there are amazing places to see and little things that make it different from place to place, but 'home' is not what defines you but more a place that holds a piece of your foundation.

Home is where you hang your hat
or
Home is where the love is

have been quoted many times to fill the gap and my lack of feeling as if I had a home. Neither truly encompass what I feel, although the latter is still my favorite. Home, however, is my beginning, my start and yes, there is much about 'home' that made me who I am today. I am not ready to 'move back' to hell anytime soon, but I am ready to return home to visit instead of continuing to run away.

What does HOME mean to you?