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Writer's pictureSarah Peachey

Reflections on 'Home'

It was at 11:00 at night as I was laying on a borrowed, creaky air bed in a mostly empty house, that I began thinking of our new home, one we've only been in for a week, as ourhome. There are a lot of quotes out there about what "home" is or what it means to be "home."


There’s a saying often heard in Army life: “Home is where the Army sends us.”


Most of us know this. We move every 2-3 years, sometimes more frequently, adding new rugs, new curtains, selling old things that might not fit, and hanging pictures to make our borrowed housing feel like home. Other things that we adore but don't fit may go into storage, while some homes require us to buy things to fill space, and we secretly hope we can fit them into the next one. Our home isn’t permanent, but temporary. It moves as we move.


But there’s another saying in the civilian world: “You can’t go home again,”popularized by Thomas Wolfe and his novel of the same name. After returning to my original stomping grounds, I find that statement to be true.


Shortly after arriving back from Germany, mid-PCS, we had a to-do list longer than my arm. After running errands with my husband and having to make a stop at the DMV, what I like to call the great equalizer, the idea of not being able to go back home became very true.

Over the last three years that we spent in Germany, my hometown changed.


A lot.


What used to be farmland or open fields was now home to shopping centers, strip malls, gas stations, and new restaurants. What used to be a 15-minute commute was now almost twice that. Attempting to take a shortcut to avoid traffic left me fumbling to find a landmark to know both where I was and which way to go. After three wrong turns, we finally reached our destination. This happened more than once in our two weeks back.


My childhood home was also greatly changed. I barely recognized the exterior. I joked with my parents that, had I been the one to find the house, I would have driven right past it. Gone was the 1960s green, replaced by a crisp beige. In place of the clunky, dark garage door stood a bright white door with windows to let in natural light. Some new furniture, fresh hardwood, and a completely new bathroom (built by my brother) made walking into my childhood home a completely new experience. It didn’t feel like my home; it was as if I never made it home.


But I found one more saying to be true: “Home is where you lay your hat.” Or in this case, home is where your suitcase explodes throughout the room. Despite all the changes, there was still familiarity.


For the rest of the story, visit armywifenetwork.com.

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