Socialist, Communist, Hippie

I've been called quite a few things in my time.  When you have an opinion on something you usually are.  But by and large, my favorite one is "hippie".  As if its an insult!

I suppose the reasoning for this goes back to my childhood.  My parents are amazing.  They managed to raise 5 children on one income and some extra cash my mom made by baby sitting.  A pretty awesome accomplishment if you ask me.  They did this by being old-fashioned and frugal.  In the excess of the 80's and 90's they lived a simple life.

We had a garden for most of our veggies.  All five of us kids were expected to do our part by weeding, snapping beans, and picking the rip vegetables.  What wasn't used right away was frozen or canned for the winter.  We always had homemade pizza sauce, pickle relish, and more setting next to cans of corn and green beans.  I can remember the long hours of canning with my mom.

Also a permanent fixture in our backyard was a clothesline.  Let me tell you, nothing compares to going to bed on sheets that just came off the line.  We had a dryer, but it was only used in the wintertime or when it was raining.

As for the clothes that hung on the line, those came from one of two places.  Either the consignment store or my mother's sturdy Kenmore sewing machine.  Once you outgrew something it simply went in a box to wait until the next person fit in it.

Babies were fed from the breast, not a bottle.  Not only because of the amazing benefits, but also because it was free.  Once a bit more solid food was needed, my mother simply hauled out the hand powered food grinder.  Whatever the rest of the family was eating, so was the baby.  No fancy, jarred foods for her.

On our bums were cloth diapers and rubber pants.  More laundry, yes, but a small tradeoff for the thousands they would have spent on disposables.

So with a childhood like this, how could I do anything else?

My little one had breast milk until he decided at the age of 1 that he was done.  I will admit I used jarred baby foods, but very briefly.  He liked feeding himself more so we simply gave him table foods.  His bum is fluffy.  Although my cloth diapers are a bit more advanced than the ones my mom used on me.

My garden is coming.  I hope that we get into our new house early enough to start one this year.  And since our landlord is my best friend I don't think she'll have a problem with it.  I also think she'll be okay with the clothesline I intend to put up.

Meals are made as much from scratch as I can. I'm slowly improving in that area.  People often give me a look when I decide to make my own spaghetti sauce or make my macaroni and cheese from scratch.  "They've spent millions of dollars perfecting the taste!"  they say.  Well, it's not about the taste.  It's about the ingredients.

I've taken the "hippie-ness" a step further than my parents. I like to wear my baby.  I love to grab a wrap and strap my son to my back.  That way we can explore the world together.  Both seeing what the other sees.  He is not stuck in a stroller staring at people's kneecaps.

I also do not let my son cry in excess.  It is his form of communication.  If you were to speak to me I would respond.  Why would I not do the same for my child?

So yes, I am a hippie.  A socialist, communist, hippie as my BFF and I coined ourselves one night years ago.  Believers in sharing, loving, learning from everyone and everything, and the power of wisdom.

I am damned proud of it.  Who wants to join me?

Home

So the topic of home has been on my mind a great deal lately.  Mostly the age old question.  What makes a home?

Is it simply the house in which you live?  Is it where you grew up and have a million memories from.  Is it where your family is?  Or shall we go with the cliché and say "Home is where the heart is".

The truth is, it can be any of these things and it can be none.

The reason home has been on my mind is because my husband and I are in the process of moving.  We have a lovely house.  It was built by a very wealthy man in 1917 and comes with some awesome features.  I have mahogany woodwork, walnut doors, oak floors, large closets (almost unheard of in old homes) and the pièce de résistance is a crystal chandelier in my foyer from Czechoslovakia.  It is large and beautiful and was bought at an insane price due to the fact it is in a dying town.  But I have known the entire 4 1/2 years we've lived here that it is not home.

So we had to embark on a quest to decide where home was.  We had 4 major contenders.

The first was my childhood hometown.  Small, quaint, picturesque, lovely, small, friendly, small, and did I mention small.  An average population of 900 people, small.  But a large chunk of my family still resides there and so does one of my two best friends.  There are many opportunities for employment, wonderful churches, and the cost of living is extremely reasonable.  Sounds like a no brainer, right?  Well, not so much.  Because I have as many unhappy memories of my childhood as I do happy ones.  Going to visit my parents is always done in small doses.  Not because of them, but because feelings of despondency always seem to creep up on me the longer I'm there.

So we move on to the next option.  My husband's hometown.  So very, very different from my own.  He grew up in a suburb of a major city.  Very major.  Again we have friends and family that reside in the immediate area.  Since it's so large of course there are plenty of choices for jobs, churches, and the like.  Cost of living, yeah let's just not go there.  And also, while I live big cities, I am a small town girl at heart.  I want to feel safe walking down the street late at night.  I want to take my children to the park and not be afraid of turning my back on them.  I also have anxiety.  Large cities and lots of people on a regular basis wear on my nerves.

Two down, two to go.  The next option is a small (but not super small) town in the same state my husband grew up in.  His parents moved there shortly before we got married and several years ago, so did his sister and her family.  Well, as much as I love my in-laws does anyone want to live next to theirs for the rest of their life?  Plus I have no friends there and my aforementioned anxiety prohibits me making new ones.

We're running out of options!  But wait!  There is one left.  The final option is the town I went to college in.  Nice and small without being claustrophobic.  Population of 6500.  A private Christian college where I could finally finish my college degree.  Private Christian grade and high schools (a must for us because we intend to send our children there).  A Wal-Mart, two grocery stores, movie theater, small mall, restaurants, and more.  More churches than you can shake a stick at.  And best of all, my best friend in the entire world.  Along with her husband and two adorable little boys.

You guessed it folks.  When we made our decision last fall, it was option #4.  And it really wasn't even a hard decision!  Peace just seemed to descend on me when it was finalized.  I knew in my soul that we had made the right choice.  Because I realized something (warning clichés ahead).  Home is where the heart is.  Home is where you make it.  Home is where you hang your hat.  Home is where your soul feels rested.  It is where you are accepted without judgement.  Where you go to cry, but you leave laughing.  It is where you choose it to be with the people you chose to be there.

I'm moving home.  And my heart is singing.