For the past 20 years or so my neighbor Bill has rented out this sweet little cabin on his property. He tells me about half of his business comes from folks who return year after year. And he adds they’re the best of the bunch — content with the lodging, back for more good times, they get it in a way others may not. Me, I’m approaching my third summer in the biz and, surprisingly, the return visits are starting to trickle in.
Dave and Mary, who’d been here a little over a year ago, showed up on my doorstep last week. Pulling into the drive, letting themselves into the house and belting out a chorus of “we’re home” …too funny. But it did feel like they were home. Same room. Same routine. In many ways, same conversation. But isn’t that what home is? A place you can count on — to be secure, to be warm, to be welcome in, to be yourself in with no pretense or show?
In the year since they were here we’d kept the channel open on Facebook. Through shots of the grandkids (uh, dog in my case), the vacations, the parties and random silliness that makes it on to Facebook, we’d stayed in touch. And then here they were. Back on the Smith. Back in the redwoods. Back on the deck breathing in the crisp air that shoots down the river.
Up early for coffee and muffins, sitting around the fire with eyes trained on a Kindle or hands busy with crochet, shooting the breeze after a day filled with minor hikes and, well, more reading on the Kindle and crocheting, it felt like home for me too.
Back in another year? I’ll be right here.