Chapter One : Part 1: When Home Was Simple

When people ask me where I'm from, I usually have to stop and think for a second. It's not because I don't know the answer. It's because there are so many answers. Over the years I've lived in Washington, California, Idaho, Wisconsin, Arizona, Alaska, Arkansas, Texas, and now Indiana. I've packed up my life more times than I ever imagined I would, and every place left a little piece of itself with me. But if someone asked me where my story really began, there would only ever be one answer.

Palouse, Washington.

Most people have never heard of Palouse, and honestly, I kind of like that. It wasn't the kind of place people vacationed or accidentally stumbled across. It was a small farming town surrounded by rolling wheat fields that seemed to stretch forever. Tractors were just another part of everyday life, and everybody seemed to know everybody. If something happened at school, chances were someone had already told your parents before you even got home. As a kid, I thought every town worked that way. I thought everybody waved at their neighbors, left their doors unlocked, and spent their afternoons outside until someone called them in for dinner.

Our house sat across the street from a little church on a quiet road. It wasn't a fancy house by any means, but I never saw it that way. It was painted a soft eggshell yellow with white trim around the windows, and to me it was the most beautiful place in the world. There was a giant tree in the front yard that I was convinced touched the sky, bushes that somehow became castles or secret hideouts depending on what game I was playing, and enough room for my imagination to run wild from morning until the sun started going down.

Like every old house, ours had its own personality. The floors creaked, the windows rattled when the wind blew just right, and everyone always joked that an old woman haunted the place. I never knew whether to believe them or not. I never saw anything, but I definitely remember lying in bed some nights listening to the house settle and wondering if maybe everyone else knew something I didn't. Looking back now, it was probably just an old house making old house noises. Back then, though, every little sound seemed like the beginning of a ghost story.

Most people came through the back door instead of the front. The first room you walked into was the workroom. Dad always had something sitting out there that he was fixing or building, and there always seemed to be another project waiting to be finished. There were tools scattered around, pieces of wood leaning against the wall, and random odds and ends that probably looked like clutter to everyone else. To me, it was just home. It was the kind of room that reminded you things didn't have to be thrown away just because they were broken. Dad almost always found a way to fix them.

From there you walked straight into the kitchen, and if there was one room that held our family together, it was that one. Looking back now, I think almost every important memory from those years somehow happened in that kitchen. Homework covered the table after school. Birthday cakes were decorated on the counters. Christmas cookies seemed to take over every inch of available space every December. We laughed there, celebrated there, and ended almost every day sitting around the table together.

Mom worked in Pullman, about thirty minutes away, so during the day it was usually just Dad and me. She didn't get home until around five every evening, and I never thought much about what that meant. I wasn't thinking about how hard she'd worked all day or how tired she probably was after driving home. I was just waiting for her.

Around five o'clock every afternoon, I'd start listening for her car to pull into the driveway. The second I heard it, I'd be ready. I'd spent the whole day collecting stories I couldn't wait to tell her. I'd tell her what happened at school, who I played with at recess, whether I'd climbed the big tree again, or if one of the squirrels finally trusted me enough to take a peanut from my hand. Most of those stories probably weren't very important, but she always listened like they were. Looking back now, I think that's one of the greatest gifts she ever gave me. She made me feel like my little world mattered.

Not long after she got home, dinner would be cooking. I still think Mom made the best spaghetti I've ever had. Maybe everyone believes that about their mom's cooking, but I'm convinced mine really was the best. The smell of spaghetti sauce slowly filled the house along with fresh bread, coffee, and whatever dessert she happened to be baking that day. Around Christmas there were sugar cookies, rum balls, and enough sweets to make the whole house smell warm before you even walked through the door.

The old wood stove sat right there in the kitchen, and during the winter it became the heart of the house. Eastern Washington winters could be bitterly cold, and I'd stay outside as long as I possibly could until I couldn't feel my fingers anymore. I'd come running through the back door with snow-covered boots, soaking wet mittens, and cheeks so red they almost hurt. Mom would remind me every single time to leave my boots by the door before I tracked snow across her clean kitchen floor. I'd peel off my gloves and sit cross-legged in front of the stove while the fire crackled, waiting for the warmth to slowly work its way back into my hands.

It's funny what stays with you. I don't remember every birthday present or every Christmas gift I ever got, but I remember the sound of that fire. I remember the smell of dinner cooking. I remember waiting for Mom to come home, knowing we'd all be together before long. Those little moments seemed so ordinary back then, but they're the memories I find myself returning to over and over again.

Dad usually spent his evenings reading, sitting at the computer, or working on whatever project had caught his attention that week. As far as I was concerned, he could fix absolutely anything. If something broke, I never worried because Dad would figure it out. He wasn't the kind of man who constantly said, "I love you." He showed it instead. He taught me how to whistle while I had chicken pox because we were both tired of sitting inside. He built me an igloo after one heavy snowfall. He answered my endless questions and somehow never made me feel like I was asking too many. Looking back now, I realize those little moments were his way of telling me he loved me.

Before I ever had the upstairs bedroom with the spiral staircase, I had a tiny little room downstairs tucked between the kitchen and the living room. Looking back now, I laugh because it was barely bigger than a closet, but I loved that little room. My stuffed animals lined the bed, my sock monkey always had his special place, and every night I climbed under the blankets feeling completely safe. I never wished for a bigger room because I didn't know I was supposed to. I already had everything that mattered.

As I sit here writing this years later, I realize what I miss isn't just the house itself. I miss the feeling that lived inside it. I miss believing that Mom would always come home around five, that Dad would always know how to fix whatever was broken, and that every evening would end with all of us gathered around the kitchen table. Childhood has a way of making you believe the people you love and the places that make you feel safe will always be there.

For a little while, they were.