Home

Long ago my parents inherited the farm that my father's parents raised him in. I remember being a kid, and getting shipped off to the farm to spend a few weeks hanging out in the country with my grandparents. I was decidedly a city kid. There were all kinds of things that I simply could not stomach while I was there. Be it the smell of the pigs outside, the lack of cable tv, the utter lack of children to play with, or the grotesque slop bucket that sat in the kitchen corner, I simply couldn't stand being there.

A few weeks ago the farm house burned down. The authorities believe that it was due an electrical fire. When I alerted my brother to this news he seemed to be taken aback a bit. I didn't really think much about his reaction. I assumed he would handle the situation the same as I. I was stunned, and then realized that I never went to this place, and had no real connection to it anymore. His subsequent reactions were in direct opposition to mine.

We stood in front of the burned down house taking it all in and taking a moment to reflect on what had happened. When I looked over at my brother he had a look as if our grandparents had just died all over again. Once we were back in the car, he said how it was official, "we have no where we can go home to anymore." This struck me as very very odd. I never really considered the farm house to be home. I spent a fair amount of time there, but I never considered it some place that carried all the traits of home. This lead me to understand a fundamental difference between my brother and I. For me home consists of the people in my life. My home is wherever my friends are (though lately they are all spread so damn far apart). I base everything off my experiences with my friends, while my brother bases them off of his childhood memories of family. Personally I think he has the better approach.