Have you been to my house? In Wisconsin, in the neck of a culdesac, my parents built a house in a hill ... that's to say its a walkout. I love that house. Big tree with a hammock swing. Real hammock under the deck. Grassy fields separate us from our neighbors but they're still close enough for night games and snowball fights. People have come and gone in our little neighborhood - just outside the city limits, kissing the cornfields.
A few of my high school friends lived there too, but we don't talk anymore - too busy with our new lives. I'm done with college and they will be soon. Maybe we'll have a summer bonfire at Adams - smells so good.
When I come home I drop off my bag (and laundry) and head straight for a kitty's tummy. Every time I'm greeted by this barbershop quartet. When I was little we had it in our old house in Blaine, now it hangs in our entryway, makes me smile when I open and enter from the garage. I love this picture. It reminds me of my dad. I keep searching for a little piece of Minnesota out here. A little piece of Wisconsin. This picture is in my heart and soul - when my dad was still alive, when Hunter and I used to make string forts in our bedroom. This picture is a Feltman picture. Coming home from college and seeing this picture, its home. I had no idea what it was until I was thirteen. Then I fell in love with Norman Rockwell.