One of my favorite things (now, not so much as a kid) about being home, is chopping and bringing in wood. My mom's home is heated by one wood stove that sits in the family room and blows heat throughout the rest of the house. If there's not a fire going, we're freezing! The whole 'building a fire to survive' concept is so charming to me and home is just home when there's a fire built. This house I grew up in holds every single dear memory I have for the first 18 years of my life, and so many more since then. This house is where I learned to walk and talk, where I learned to read, to speak correctly, it's where I played with my brothers and built forts out of couch cushions. It's where I had my first cry over a boy, it's where I slept the night before I got married, it's where Collin came to propose to me (though he didn't get the chance, another story for another day), it's where I learned to bake bread and where I learned to make biscuits and gravy, it's the first place I came after Nolan was born and it's the last place my entire family was all together for the last time before my dad passed away. When I step inside the house I immediately feel warm and safe and at home. I love that a flaming fire in the stove is such a visual representation of what it means to be home. I just love being home.
