Happy To Be Home

Over the years, my family of four always loved to go on trips.  Be it winter for skiing, for example, or summer for camping, we really enjoyed going away. 

Because my wife and I worked in the school system, our holidays tended to come in regularly-spaced chunks, which was especially nice when our daughters still attended elementary school.  We were able to get away several times during the year, usually for short spans of four or five days.  That made us more fortunate than many folks, and we appreciated that—one reason, perhaps, why we enjoyed the opportunities so much.

Due a combination of lack of interest and financial realities, we didn’t make elaborate journeys to glamorous vacation spots.  Our most expensive holidays were of the weekend-at-a-small-ski-lodge variety.  Mostly, we visited with family members who lived out of town, stayed with friends at their summer cottages, or set up our own digs at one of the myriad provincial campgrounds.

Vagabond vacationers—that’s what we considered ourselves.

In spite of our love for going away, however, and regardless of the type of trip we’d been on, there was one element common to all our family meanderings.  We loved to come home.  No matter how long we’d been gone, it was a real joy to come in the door, drop our gear, and explore through the house.

Each of us had one special thing we liked to do when we arrived back, a self-appointed task that served to herald our homecoming.  Among the several necessary jobs—turning up the temperature in the water heater, plugging in the water-softener, or opening windows to dispel the stuffiness—our special tasks stood out in their importance to each of us, respectively, as our way of saying, “I’m home!”

My wife would spend a good half-hour visiting her plants—watering them, talking to them, grooming them lovingly.  My youngest daughter would beat a path to her bedroom to check on whether everything was just as she’d left it (though, given the normal disarray, I wasn’t sure how she could tell).  My other daughter would take Cinnamon, our toy poodle, on an inspection tour of the house, the sunroom, and the back yard, generally in that order.

For all of them, it was a renewing of acquaintance with home.

My special task was to wind the five antique clocks.  The time on each face had to be adjusted, the chimes and gongs checked to be sure they were synchronized, and the pendulums re-started.  It wasn’t a difficult job, or a lengthy one, but it could be stretched into thirty minutes of time alone, savouring the feeling of being back home again.  And when the next full hour rolled around, when the clocks began to sound, everything seemed normal once more.

Perhaps you share my sentiment that, when I’m not in the place I love, I love the place I’m in.  My family certainly looked forward to every succeeding trip or vacation spot we planned to visit, and always seemed to enjoy wherever we happened to be.  But when it came time to head for home, we were never unhappy with that prospect, either.

Our daughters have been gone for several years now, off raising children of their own.  But they’ve continued the tradition of spending holidays with their own wee families as often as possible.

For my wife and me, however, holidays are different now—more sedate, more pampered, and to more exotic destinations than in our earlier years—places like France, Italy, and South Africa.  Although we miss those wee girls who originally accompanied us, we still love to get away.

Way back when, we had a nice little routine we’d go through in the car as each journey neared its end.  One of us would start by remarking on the terrific time we’d all had, how much fun it was to be on holiday.  Someone else would comment on the wonderful weather, or the new locales we had visited.  Another might mention some of the memorable highlights of the trip, or the exciting activities we had shared.

“Yeah, it was a great holiday,” somebody would conclude, “but it’s nice to be coming home.”

Later, perhaps at the supper table, or maybe when the girls were off getting ready for bed, my wife or I would sit back and re-affirm it.

“Y’know, it’s good to be home!”

Recently, following our latest trip, when all the plants were tended to, and all the clocks were wound, the two of us settled with a glass of wine.  No words were spoken, yet we understood how each other was feeling.  And by the time the clocks chimed ten, we were both fast asleep, exhilarated and exhausted by our wonderful adventures.

Happy to be home.

_{© J. Bradley Burt 2021}