Standing in line at the Post Office the other day, I found myself tapping my heels together and wishing for home. The line was long, lunch hour on a Monday, with only one window open to serve all of our needs. The box I was sending to Germany for Christmas was feeling heavy after awhile, people were clearing their throats, shuffling feet and feeling generally discontent with spending so much time standing in line, which brought me to my thoughts of home.

I begin to picture our house, warm fire crackling, soft jazz on the stereo, cookies baking in the oven, kitty curled up on the couch. Ahh, how I long to be home. My thoughts then begin to wander farther back - to a November afternoon in 1975.

The school bell rings, doors fly open and we all scramble our way out of Stella Mayfield Elementary School into a bright, crisp autumn day. Coats are buttoned up, mittens pulled on as thirty 2nd graders mingle with the rest of the grade-schoolers, calling out to our friends, laughing and jostling as we each head our own ways home. In this tiny rural community in the 70's, we are safe to walk home alone, knowing that everyone we meet along the way is looking out for us. It takes a community to raise a child was such a true statement during this era. If we were naughty on the way home, rest assured that Mom would know before we got there.

I meander home, never in a big hurry. Too many leaves to crunch and crackle under my feet, too many bugs to watch poke along. When I do arrive, I push open the door to the smell of fresh baked cookies and a Mama's love.

Ahh, how I long to be home again, and eight years old, for just one more day...