Home is where the heart is

I love home. In fact, I think my feelings are even stronger than that. I adore home. I enjoy coming home from wherever and dropping into my recliner. I love listening to my music in stereo in the living room. I love dropping into my bed at night and waking refreshed in the morning. I love my neighborhood, my yard, my flowers, my car. With this much adoration, I imagine you're thinking that I must have lots of worldly things that make my home plush and appealing. That's not the case at all. When I moved into my home almost twenty years ago, I bought all the furniture I needed, and I have bought almost nothing since. I love my home because it's my home. I once lived in a tiny garage apartment, and it too served very well for home for a while. I'm a homebody. In fact, I'm such a homebody that I'm glad I have the gym and my substituting job at the local college to make me get me out of the house occasionally. When I was teaching high school and was still married, the family sometimes scheduled trips at which time we planned to leave right after school so as to make the most of the little time we had. Almost always, although time was precious, I would insist on going home for a few minutes before we left. It was almost like "touching base" in a game. The songwriter has written, "Home is where the heart is." Well, my heart is indeed at home.