A Sense of Place

One of the things that I have been thinking a lot about this week is my own personal "sense of place." When asked where we thought our sense of place might be, I thought for only a mere moment before my mind immediately went to the house I grew up in, out in the country. It was a pretty little house, nestled beside a winding road; it sat amidst several grassy acres that were dotted with old Oak trees, slow-growing Pecan trees, and a trail of Cypress trees leading down to a large pond in the back of the property. It was a little "Acadian-style" cottage, as my mom always called it, when trying to describe the simple details that added such character to the charming house: notably, the plantation shutters and the white porch which gracefully stretched across the house's width.

The house was about a 20-minute drive from the nearest town; in fact, I always remember catching myself saying phrases like "I'm going to town today," or, "oh, that's all the way in town," or, "may as well get it done while you're in town." It was a special place; removed, yes, but not too distant from the "real world" to feel cut off from the hustle and bustle of daily life. Dad always said, "In 20 years, town'll be where we are. Just you wait." And wait we did. Life was slower out in the country; peaceful, relaxing. Many a Summer day I spent outside, running barefoot through the grass, playing in our treehouse, picking blueberries, and helping Dad with miscellaneous projects around the house and in the yard. Then, the clear, crisp days of October would come around, and I would busy myself with bike-rides up and down our long gravel drive, soaking in the sights and sounds of the falling leaves, smelling the smoky, earthy scent of the woodpiles being burned on the neighboring properties, and savoring the tingly, "sharp" sensation you get in your nose when you breath in that cool air really fast. Winter always brought warm cups of cocoa and a toasty fire crackling away in the big brick fireplace that served as the focal point in our living room. And then, the Robins would suddenly appear in the front yard, hopping about, pecking happily away at the feed we always left out for them - a sure sign of Spring! The Riverbirch trees would be covered with buds, the grass would appear greener and more lively, the crawfish "mud-huts" would dot the front yard, and before I knew it, I'd be jumping up on dad's tractor to help him mow those grassy acres!

And so it went out in the country, through the seasons, year after year. It was a simple life; one unencumbered by worries or the hustle-bustle of the town. That little spot in the country holds some of the most precious memories of my life to this day.

My parents still live out there. And ironically enough, every weekend, I am happy to take a drive from in town "out to the country." And ah, what memories that accompany that 20-minute drive! I feel such a deep connection with all of the elements that constitute that country landscape - as though I could almost breathe it all in!


I did consider other options for things that would describe my "sense of place:" songs, stories, memories. Yet nothing quite compares to that feeling I get when I think about "home." It is a connection with that grassy open land, that country, those trees, that gravel drive... hard to describe. But I feel it, and I know it, and to me, it is home.