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By Ry

http://currentripple.blogspot.com/ 

After All, There is No Place Like Home

By Kathy Combs

www.thetruckerswife.com

     I lived in the same house most of my life.  It was where my parents brought me when I was born, and where they lived out the remainder of their days here on Earth.  Sadly, that house was sold, demolished, and a CVS drugstore stands in its place today.   I am saddened every time I pass the site of my childhood home.  I still have vivid memories of that house and how everything used to be.

     After I graduated high school I packed my Dodge Shelby Charger to overflowing with all my possessions and moved to the dorm on the Belmont University campus in Nashville, Tennessee.  As much as I tried to make the space I resided in as comfortable as possible, it never felt like home.  I was constantly homesick and missed my mother terribly.  Like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, all I ever wanted was to go home.  Eventually,  I returned to the house on County Road 4 where I continued living until I married my husband.  So many memories were packed into that house; happy and sad. At my parents' estate sale, I strolled through the house one last time.  It was empty by then and to my dismay no longer felt like home.   The ghosts of my past were gone, and I was sad to no longer find them there.

       When I married my husband we moved all our possessions to a single wide trailer that we had purchased and placed in a community.  I loved that little house!  My husband and I had it built to our specifications with our favorite colors represented complete with a hot tub in the master bedroom.  It was a house filled with love. It was where we enjoyed the first decade of our marriage and where both of my children spent the first precious years of their lives.

        Before I knew what hit me, I was pregnant again.  We decided to take what little money we had and invest in a new home to be built on an acre of land we had found in the country.  The house was supposed to be completed 2 weeks before my cesarean-section was to take place.  Unfortunately, when the time came closer to move in day, the contractor in charge filed bankruptcy.  What that meant to us was that not only did we lose the home we were trying to build, we lost the money we had invested, and the home we had lived in for 11 years.  We were devastated financially and emotionally.  Instead of having the dream house we eagerly anticipated, we were left financially crippled and forced to move.   

         We desperately searched for a home we could rent to own and as fate would have it found the lovely home where we now live.   Even though I was exited about the move, I still was saddened by our overwhelming loss.  As I packed everything in cardboard boxes, I grieved constantly for the homes I had lost, until a cousin of mine pointed out to me one golden truth.  Your home is not the structure where you reside, it is wherever you hang your hat, wherever you happen to be to live life with those you love.  I no longer grieve for what I no longer have, but instead celebrate what I do.  After all, there is no place like home!

With Love, Your Sara

By Scott Riddick

http://atypicalread.blogspot.com/ 

     I did not expect my interaction with you to lead beyond anything other than causal talk. I did not expect you to be so charming. I did not expect you to be so...available. More unexpected than all this, I never thought my heart would step aside and allow impulse alone to drive me into your arms. I am a happily married woman with a beautiful daughter and loving husband waiting for my return. Back home in the states, where my life can be sometimes complicated, things are generally warm and complacent in their simplicity. I had no other reason, selfishness always being a constant struggle within me, to turn my back on my husband, my family...myself.  There is just something about you that the hard working mother and caring wife inside me deemed an acceptable risk to take. There is Something I can not quite place a finger upon that keeps me up late at night for the past five years trying to understand. How dare you enter into my life and turn it upside down!

     I am sorry. I should not direct my anger and shame and humility toward you. It was I who brought you literally in from the rain into my hotel room, sheltering you from the elements and creating a quiet storm within me. It should have been nothing more than a temporary delay in your travel, wherever it is you had planned on venturing. I should have been the one to tell you then that someone was waiting on me back home. I should have bid you good day, after the lovely chat we shared over a cup of hotel coffee. Til this day, it was the best tasting cup of Joe that has ever come across my taste buds. Delightfully sinful it was, embarking down a path of error head first without regard to others. Still, my love, I did a terrible thing to those who loved me so.

     I still reflect on that rainy morning. You looked me in the eye with those baby blue heart-breakers and asked, with a strong French accent, if I was in Paris for business or pleasure. I could not possibly have known at the time that it would be both, telling you that I was there on business, leaving out the part about being married. I regret not keeping my ring on, for it may have saved so many long hours of hurt and tears, but I never travel with those possessions I could never bare losing. Still, I wonder, did you notice the discoloration around my ring finger as we made love and, if you had, would it have made a difference? For me it would not have been a distraction, for I made love to you and never consider the love I had made before you. You broke my heart in two, and I allowed you.

     After we made love, we laid in bed for most of the afternoon. You told me about life in Paris and I complimented you on how well you articulated your words in near perfect English. I recall how free and open you were about life. How you never allowed a past event, no matter how big or small, to impact the rest of your day. At first, I thought this to be a smug "French" attitude bleeding through that rugged exterior with the best looking five o'clock shadow I had ever seen on any man, but would learn how gentle of a man and lover you really were. I can still taste that Merlot from Cotes de Francs on your lips, and import a bottle now and again, when I want to whisk myself back to that day. It was an affair to remember and, no matter how hard I try, one I cannot seem to forget.

     It was how you touched me, I think, leaving the most memorable impression. It was soft, as though running a feather along my skin, gentle, like smoothing out the wrinkles in the finest silk, admirably, focusing all of your attention on every inch of my body one caress at a time. No one has ever touched me like that, and likely never will again. When you held me, after we made love, it reminded me when I was a girl lying in bed at night, snuggling up to my favorite blanket. I felt secure. I felt as though I were the most important thing in your life, even though I am quite sure I was just another flavor in your mouth. You have left me crushed in your wake of passion and I am adrift in a sea of adultery, praying that my indiscretion not lead me to further temptation.

     And even now, as I write this, I know my words will never reveal themselves to your eyes. Perhaps this is just another way for me to confess my sin, or maybe I am being gullible in thinking I could ever see you again. It's been five years since I have seen you, but each year I have come back to Paris, to this Hotel, to this room and left you this letter. I do not expect much to come from this trip. Perhaps once I had hoped for some fairy tale ending that never came. I guess I am reliving a memory to myself as I sit down in the lobby cafe, sipping on a cheap coffee, while writing this letter, and waiting for that symbolic glass of Merlot to come to my table. You should know, however, that this time it is raining outside. I find myself checking the window as a wave of umbrellas rush past, hoping one of them is you. I cannot lose the hopeless romantic in me. Not since you introduced me to her years ago. 

     Tomorrow I will leave back for America. And, like today, I will return here again this time next year and another letter will be left for you, my love. I will continue to dream and hold my fairy tale close to my heart. Never lose sight of the magic we created together and the passion we shared. Wherever you are, know that you are loved, still. You gave me something that I cherish, and like those things which I hold dear, I leave here with you, until my return next year. 

With Love,

Your Sara

She took the letter and carefully folded it, placing it inside an envelope and sat it on the table next to the glass of wine her waited had brought her. She reached for the wine glass and placed it against her lips. She savored the smell of the wine, and then she drank it. One continuous sip after another until the wine was gone from her glass. She then casually got up from her seat, placing the money for her drinks on the table underneath the wine glass. She hesitated for a moment more, and then she walked out from the cafe, the lobby of the Hotel and out into the drizzling rain, without an umbrella. 

Pinewood Paneling and Powder Rooms

By L. Avery Brown

Founder, Real Bloggers United

Editor-in-Chief, RBU: The Group Blog

http://whenasouthernwomanrambles.blogspot.com/

When I was a little girl I, along with my parents and 2 of my 4 siblings, lived in a one story house that was built in the early 70s. It was a far cry from ‘big’. In fact, it was probably a tad smaller than most homes 35 years ago as it was somewhere close to barely 1,600 square feet.  Though, barely 1,600 square feet was actually spacious back then. And today I suppose a realtor would describe my childhood home as ‘cozy’ but to me it was simply ‘home’.

Our house had 3 bedrooms. My parents had their room which to my youthful eyes was huge and it even had a small ½ bath. My sister and I shared a room and my brother got a room all to himself.  And even though his was a room just slightly larger than the full bathroom minus the tub, it was, nevertheless, all his. But truth be told, I didn’t mind sharing my room with my big sister although I’m sure she wasn’t too keen on the idea considering she was in her early teens and I was only 7 when we moved into our house.  

I had my side of the room with my twin sized bed and Barbies and stuffed animals. And she had her side of the room with her bed and her posters and her AM/FM stereo/record player that took up the entire top of her dresser. All in all we enjoyed a harmonious division of our space.

We never had to resort to drawing a line of demarcation down the center of the room. Especially since doing so would have been disadvantageous for both of us when one takes into account that her half had the door, a rather valuable commodity considering it would have been difficult for me to enter and exit the room via the window by my bed, and my half had the closet where she hung the majority of her clothes.  Quite frankly, I think my side of the room was much more valuable because nothing must ever come between a teenage girl and her clothes.

Nearly half our house was made up of our ‘good-sized’ living room and our open kitchen/family room with its très chic pinewood paneled walls and built-in pinewood bookshelves filled with all sorts of books including what eventually became a complete set of Funk and Wagnells encyclopedias and bonus World Atlas. To this day I can still remember dashing excitedly out to the mailbox when our mailman came down our dirt road in his beat up old Buick hoping that this delivery would have the next encyclopedia in the set or maybe even...gasp...a record from the Columbia Record Club.

No one could beat the ‘Get one at regular price and get 11 for 1 penny’ deal offered on the back page of the Parade Magazine, the colorful Sunday newspaper insert. But waiting 6 to 8 weeks for delivery was tough even though it was worth it to be able to hear the mellow sounds of the Carpenters’ ‘Kind Of Hush’ or Foreigner’s rocking ‘Head Games’  and...be still my beating heart, Duran Duran's 'Rio'...even if my father did insist that we also order things like ‘Arthur Fiedler and the Boston Pops’ so we could get the special deal.

However most days the mail was filled with bills and advertisements for the local furniture store or the Winn-Dixie super market where you could not only get a six pack of 10-ounce bottles of Pepsi-Cola but you could also return your empties for cash. In our house we were Pepsi purists; Coca-Cola very rarely ever crossed our threshold. Of course every now and again one might find a few bottles of SunDrop hiding in the back of the fridge.

But sadly ever since the advent of plastic packaging you’d be hard pressed to find a store that stocks Pepsi in little glass bottles. Though if I close my eyes I can still remember the quick ‘pfffsst’ sound that was made when my father would open up a bottle releasing the pent up carbonated pressure. And what’s more, if I’m very quiet I can hear the unique clinking sound made by the empty bottles when we would drive to the grocery store to return them.

My humble abode also had 1 ½ baths. Granted ‘1/2’ baths are generally little more than glorified closets with a commode and sink but for some reason having that extra ½ bath can make a small home seem positively palatial. Unfortunately one cannot easily utilize a ½ bath in the pursuit of daily personal hygiene so the 5 of us all had to share our one full bathroom. I imagine the logistics of figuring out who got to use the bathroom in the morning and for how long, especially since 2 of the 5 were teenagers, was a real headache for my parents but somehow we managed. And whenever there was complaining my father was quick to point out that even the people in Hollywood have to suffer through a shortage of lavatories.

After all, the Brady Bunch lived in a massive home that apparently only had 2 bathrooms (both of which were upstairs) even though there were 6 children (who not only shared 1 bathroom but who also had to sleep 3 to a bedroom), 2 parents (who had a spacious bathroom along with their stunning master suite), and Alice, the maid (although no one ever saw where she stayed when she wasn’t over stirring cake batter or consoling lovelorn teens).

What I always thought was interesting about the Brady’s house was that it did not fit them. Which is odd because I seem to recall that Mr. Brady was a pretty good architect (after all his firm sent him, his brood, and his house keeper to Hawaii for 2 episodes) and that he had a grand home office that was larger than most people’s living rooms so why couldn’t he have thrown in a few more bedrooms and couple more bathrooms? For Pete’s sake, he could have at least turned one of the closets downstairs into a powder room.

But I digress...back to my reminiscing (after all one cannot go through life lamenting over a lack of bathrooms). Although maybe my lavatory deficient childhood is one of the reasons why whenever and my husband and I have had to go through the rigmarole of looking for a new house one of my basic requirements has always been multiple bathrooms. I wonder.

We didn’t have air conditioning until many years after we moved in although my parents did have a window unit that ran nonstop during the summer and kept their room comfortable. As for the rest of the house if it was anywhere near warm outside our windows were always open and all that separated us from the rest of the world was our screen door which would squeak no matter how carefully you tried to open it. In the summer when it was the air was thick and it was hotter than Hades in the shade, every single box fan we owned was put in the windows and set to high. And even in the dead of winter, when the cold north wind would twist and turn itself around anything that had the misfortune of being in its way, my father always kept the window above the kitchen sink opened up just a little bit for a breath of fresh air.

Yes, the cozy little house on Belvedere Drive was more than just ‘the house where I lived’ it was home. A home which might have been a bit smaller than the average but it was my castle albeit a small castle but a castle nonetheless. But small isn’t so bad. After all, I’m small and my parents always used to tell me what I lacked in size I made up for in personality.

My Countries ‘Tis of Thee

By CK Wagner


The following was originally featured on Memorial Day this year at the London Relocation blog (http://www.londonrelocationservices.com/blog), where Colleen Wagner blogs daily on all-things-London as an American expat living in the UK.

Sporting red, white, and blue for both the
USA and UK. (at Westminster Abbey,
morning of the Royal Wedding)

     Moving to London is a life-changing event that had wrought massive homesickness when I first moved over, which recurs each time I visit home and must return again. It’s funny, though, how after a couple years I did start finding myself a bit homesick for London instead during my first days visiting home—I miss my husband, my cute lil’ London apartment, my London friends, London architecture and culture, and just my casual London everyday existence as I’m taken out of my routine.


     And yet here I sit, in my childhood bedroom the day before returning to London after two weeks in the States, and I find myself now acclimated back to my Chicago way of living—my family, my parents’ cute lil’ yellow house, my Chicago friends, Chicago spaciousness and convenience (like my car!!!), and just my casual Chicago everyday existence as I’m reinserted in my old routine.


    It kinda sucks. And yet it’s also kinda great. This is the expat experience of straddling two homes, the home where you live and the home where you came from, though “home” might be, for some, not a matter of geographic location but where your heart resides. In my case, my heart is still in Chicago, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t made room in it for London. I feel like it’s thanks to my current London expat life that, when we repatriate, I’ll be able to embrace my Chicago life with an expanded outlook that will appreciate it differently, and perhaps I’ll live it even better from where I’d left off. For as much as I’ve remained the same, after moving to London, personal growth and awareness have snuck up on me.


     Being an American expat living in London means having to say goodbye more often than I’d prefer, but it’s also getting to say hello with more and more enthusiasm with every next embrace. It’s focusing your lenses to better see what matters, taking stock of what’s no longer in your backyard and relishing what you do have for the time being before life takes you on another journey somewhere else or from whence you came. And just when you might think you’re only relocating for a job, studying abroad, or meeting new people, you just might find you’re moving to London to meet yourself again.


     I tell you, “America the Beautiful” literally brought tears to my eyes for the first time when I listened to it yesterday with new ears; my heart likewise wells with pride when I see the Union Jack flag flapping amidst Britain’s celebrations. I’m proud to be a citizen of one fine country while the resident of another, and perhaps, in future, instead of singing the words to “My Country ‘Tis of Thee” or “God Save the Queen,” I’ll just hum the sweet little tune that accompanies both (FYI, if you didn’t realize that…) so I’ll never have to truly say goodbye to either home.

Home

By Glen Staples
Managing Editor, RBU: The Group Blog
http://www.glenslife.com


The loud metallic thuds, clattered onto the roof of the car as the rain refused to lighten. Steam rose from the bonnet as the engine ticked regularly while it cooled. Jim just sat there and stared.

The already wet and blurred window began to steam blocking his view, so, almost dreamlike he rolled it down and didn’t even blink as the rain began to splash into his face.

He was frozen in time and space, the cool hits of water could do nothing to rouse him from his thoughts.

Jim hadn’t seen this coming at all, hadn’t recognised the address of the house he had come to see. Even when he had pumped the postcode into his trusty TomTom he hadn’t spotted it, all his thoughts had been whether or not this would finally be the right house for him to buy.

As soon as he had driven into the road and pulled up at number 53 he had recognised it though.

Why had he not recognised the road name? How could he have forgotten where he was?

Images of Christmas ran through his mind, the big tree would be in that big bay window, twinkling its cheap lights at you as you raced home from school on the last day of term. The excitement of running into the house, throwing his school bag into the corner and running up to his mum, buzzed through him like a lightening bolt. He wanted to run now, wanted to see her smile, feel her warmth as she hugged him. Jim wanted to see the tree, to have his father catch him trying to sneak one of the chocolate bells from the side and give a playful tickle as punishment.

The sounds of over excited children being held at bay by tired parents echoed around his head as the memories crashed into his skull all at once.

His dad standing at the door on his 8^th birthday holding a new bike.

Mum’s water thin gravy on Sunday lunch, desperately trying to stretch out the meagre shopping budget as far as possible.

The images were random and spread out over all the years – the happy years that he had lived in that house.

Home.

And then suddenly there it was. The memory that was bound to come back sooner or later – the strongest image of all.

He had practically bounced around that bend just there, excited at the idea of six whole weeks of summer holiday that lay ahead of him, another year at school had finished, now it was time to party.

And then he saw the ambulance.

What was that doing outside his house?

Jim had run then, and now sitting in his car his feet twitched as the muscles tied to run again. As he had run, he had dropped his school bag, forgetting instantly about the project work that was in it.

He got to the door.

He stood.

His feet firmly planted themselves to the doormat, refusing to let him walk in the house. Suddenly the door was the scariest object in the world and he just couldn’t go through it. No, this wasn’t getting him any where – Jim pushed through the door and screamed “Mum! Dad! What’s wrong?”

Jim’s mum had run up to him and held him tightly, his young sister clinging desperately at her side.

No words were said.

No words were needed.

In a blur, the house was sold and the three of them had moved on, his mother unable to live with the constant reminders of the man she had loved.

Jim’s cheek was stained with tears as he looked at the doorway, he could feel that embrace, feel the loss once more. Deep inside, he longed to be tickled again.

Twenty years had passed but that moment still burned.

Slowly the shock subsided and a smile crept across his face as the warmth from those happy years filled up the empty ones.

Finally, he would allow himself to remember; to remember everything.

His dad didn’t have to be a legend anymore, now he could just be his ‘Dad’ again.

With the giddiness of a child he sat there and made two calls, the first to the Estate Agent, and the second to his mum.

He didn’t need to view the house.

He already knew he wanted it.

A Message from the Founder's Keyboard

Greetings fellow RBUers and nonRBUers alike! 

     It’s July.  I can hardly believe it because it seems like just yesterday I was writing a greeting touting the romance of February!  And what great work we’ve had submitted here at RBU: The Group Blog and this month it’s no different.  Now, I know it seems I say it each month but it’s true.  The level of literary craftsmanship is phenomenal and it only seems to be getting better and better as time goes by.  Perhaps you think I’m a bit biased.  But trust me, I’m not (well not too much, I think).  Sure, I do like to ballyhoo and plug our little group whenever I get the chance but it’s something I do because I truly believe in and have great respect for all of our members.

     This month’s theme is Home.  At face value, it’s a simple word but when we asked our members to submit work that revolves around that seemingly straightforward term we found that Home is, in truth, a word with many facets.  Like, for instance, there are those who see home as a refuge from the craziness of the world.  For others it’s ‘where the heart is’.  And then again for some it’s a place they dream of longingly.    

     As far as RBU and RBU: The Group Blog is concerned, I feel like we are a very extended family spread out across continents and oceans.  And our group blog is the ‘cool house of the Internet neighborhood’.  It’s the (virtual) place where the door is always open, there’s soda pop in the fridge, and fresh cookies on the countertop.   Granted our address doesn’t roll off the tongue quite as easily as say…123 Mocking Bird Lane but it’s our spot in the blogoverse.

     It’s a place we know we can always come to no matter what time of day it is or what day of the week it happens to be.  So to put it into the simplest of terms:  RBU: The Group Blog is our home and no matter where you may physically be here on this beautiful blue marble spinning in space, if you’re a member of RBU (or if you just like dropping by to read the terrific submissions from our members) you’re never more than a quick click or a few keystrokes away. 

    And that’s how I feel about that!

     Make sure to drop by in the next few weeks to see how some of the members of RBU interpreted the month’s theme; I promise you won’t be disappointed.

*As the founder of this group, I suppose it makes me the ‘Mother’ & as such, I’m hoping all my blogging babes will call their mother--my subtle way of asking RBU members to please submit more prose, submit more poetry, and submit more photographic essays--more often!  After all, you wouldn’t want to see your mother cry would you?* :o)