At physical therapy yesterday I overheard part of a conversation. Apparently the patient shared that she was from elsewhere, but had lived here about twenty years. “Twenty years,” the therapist said. “You should be a local by now!”
I’m not so sure about that. After all, the Bradleys arrived in western North Carolina before the Revolutionary War, and the only way I get “local credibility” with my local patients is when I mention that my husband is from here, and in fact was born in the hospital where I now work.
It made me think about home. What is home? Where is home?
When I got married my wise uncle, Jim Jones told me, “home is where you make it.” Great advice for a middle aged woman leaving her entire family and moving from South Dakota to South Florida in July. I took it to heart, but still when I was asked where I was from I always said South Dakota, or the Great Plains states.
When I’m getting ready to go visit my family in South Dakota or Nebraska I tell people I am going home for a visit. I’ve certainly never considered that I would ever think of myself as being “from North Carolina.”
Yet, here I am. I realized a couple of weeks ago that not only have I lived longer in Hendersonville than any other city, but I’ve lived in this house longer than any other house, by a long shot. And to top it off, I’ve worked at Pardee hospital eleven years now, one year longer than any other hospital.
So, is this home? Maybe, but not completely. After all, you can take the girl out of the Great Plains, but I don’t think you can ever take the Great Plains out of the girl. That’s where I grew up. It is where my parent and siblings, nieces and nephews mostly reside. It is home.
But there’s one thing that seals the deal. It isn’t the house, the town, or the job. It’s the husband. Home is where my husband is.