Where is Home

I have given a lot of thought to this topic over the years.  A friend recently blogged about Going Home Again and it set my mind to wandering.  Wandering along pathways that quite honestly have no destinations.

So where is home?  Is it western Pennsylvania where I was born and spent the first 24 years of my life?   The place where all of my blood relatives (my own children excepted) reside?  The place that has changed so little in the 33 odd years since I left that I can still easily find my way around town?

I know it's not western New York.  While I loved our brief stay there the roots were shallow.  Not enough time to get a firm grasp in the rich farmland surrounding Dansville.

But is it Alabama?  I moved there feeling like a fish out of water and left fifteen years later a better person for having spent time south of the Mason Dixon Line.  My children, although not born in Huntsville, spent their childhoods playing in the red clay that abounds in north Alabama.  Clay so thick and determined that it grabs on to tiny roots and pulls them deeper with each passing day; clinging tightly when the tree is eventually uprooted.  I wonder, when my boys think of home is it thoughts of Alabama that fill their heads?  I must make a note to ask.

Or is home south Florida?  After all I believe I have lived here longer than any other place except for Pennsylvania.  Does duration of time make a place home?  I'm afraid my Florida roots are not unlike the roots of the palm, thin and shallow, easily uprooted and transplanted. Perhaps it is because there is no family here.  And yet when I'm away I miss it.  At those times when I think of home, my thoughts automatically drift to Marco Island, to swaying palms and white sandy beaches.

So where is home?  I'm not certain that I will ever be able to answer that question.  When you live the life of a nomad you leave little pieces of yourself at every stop along way.  But you also take with you the best of those places, memories of family and friends.  Memories that can be served up at a moments notice.  Memories that warm the heart on a cold winter day or even on an overcast morning just days away from my favorite holiday.  You know, the one that usually takes me home.

Baby Girl

Pappy is crushed. From the day she was born until yesterday she was his "Baby Girl." Twenty-four hours ago that changed. Came to a screeching halt.

She informed him in too grown-up a voice for a soon to be 4-year old that she was not a baby. Her exact words were: "Why you call me that Pappy, I not a baby." She broke his heart in one sweet moment.

I'm afraid I have news for our little princess.

You will always be Pappy's Baby Girl. Of that I am certain.

Beach Walk

One of the things that I have been unable to do since opening the studio is get out and shoot pictures. Most of the past six weeks has been spent ordering supplies, printing photos and searching through the myriad of files on my hard drive for acceptable images. I have missed sneaking off with my camera in search of the light.

I determined that Tuesday was the day. I set my alarm for 5 a.m. (non morning folks need not apply) and after two cups of coffee to assure I was alert enough to drive I headed out the door. Dawn was just breaking by the time I arrived on Marco's south beach.

Morning had arrived in soft pastels that reflected off of the calm gulf waters. The ebbing tide was paradise for shore birds on the hunt for their morning meal.

Morning light is soft, dominated by blues and kissed with a touch of gold from the rising sun. In a matter of minutes the cool blues are replaced with the warmer tones of a sun sitting close to the horizon. Photographers must work quickly or risk losing the light and possibly the shot of a lifetime.

The low tide also revealed shells washed ashore from the previous night's high tide. I found this Fighting Conch dragging itself along the cool moist sand on its way back to the sea. I used to jump when I inadvertently scooped up a shell with a real live critter still inside. Now I carefully turn them over and check before pocketing a pristine find. I have learned that if they look too good to be true chances are they are still inhabited.

I'm not certain I captured any usable photos on this Tuesday morning, but I enjoyed a beautiful sunrise and observing sea life and shore birds in their natural element.

Life is good.