My husband has roots. He grew up in the very same house he first came home to from the hospital when he was born. He lived there right up until he graduated from high school and went away to school. Then after we got married, we went there to visit his parents. We slept in his same old room he had lived in all his life. We moved away, and his parents continued to live there until they went to the nursing home in their old ages. He knew all the neighbors. He knew all the neighbors' kids. He knew all the stories and histories of all the neighbors. He has roots.
I do not. By the time I graduated from high school I had moved 14 times that I can count. A couple of times we stayed in the same neighborhood. But other times we moved to different cities/states/countries/continents. Since I got married 38 years ago, I have moved another 16 times. No records, I know. My brother, for instance, has outmoved me by far. But still, it's been enough times to leave me pretty rootless.
One can't have everything, and I have learned a lot from the nomadic life, but I have always thought it would be really cool to have roots. Those people like my husband . . . if it wasn't a sin, I would envy them. ;-)
4 comments:
Bless you for sharing.
Often people who grew up in the same spot end up being world travelers. People like you and me who were never allowed to settle in, tend to enjoy staying in the same place. We've been in and around this town since 1980 and to me, being called by name in the store and post office is priceless.
I love that, too!
Post a Comment