Where Everybody Knows Your Name

One of the things I realized while being "home" is that "home" isn't necessarily always yours. I mean, sure, I remember most of the roads and how to get there from here. But there's no one there I can call on a whim to meet for a drink or a cup of coffee. Even my best friend from years gone by won't return my calls. I may or may not be responsible for that -- I wasn't sober enough to remember.

It's all caused me to wonder what makes a house a home. There's a gas station on the road out of Northampton where they know I don't take meat on my Supreme Omelet morning sandwiches. In Greenfield I like the bookstore that has honest to goodness people that will talk to you about books you like, don't like, and/or might like. I know every twist, turn, and police trap on Rt. 12 in New Hampshire from Ashuelot to Keene.

Are these the things make neighborhoods home? Or are they blips on the radar screen? Is it home when your kitties are comfortable enough to stop having skin rashes? Or knowing that your neighbors have a dog they call by only "Puppy?" How many months or years do you have to be in a place to have it count?

This is a question I would like to find the answer to. Maybe not right here, in this Old Apartment. But maybe. But, I think I'm getting old because I am, indeed, looking to find a home.