It’s late in the evening. The critters of the night are singing to me from somewhere out there in the dark. The light from the lamp on my porch makes the room feel comfortable. My 1952 Emerson ottoman fan is blowing a nice breeze up my proverbial skirt.

I am here to write you a story. There is a single cricket perched on the ledge outside the screen window laughing at me. Unfortunately, he is not wrong.

Writing a story is like trying to tell a good joke to your friends. You work your way through the set up. You exaggerate the details for dramatic effect. You lead your audience with perfect timing. And you deliver the punch line.

Then…crickets.

That’s the way it feels tonight.

Since I returned from Maine, I’ve had to reintroduce myself to my normal life. Being on the road for two weeks can knock a man a little out of sorts. I went to get a clean pair of socks the other morning and realized I was looking for my suitcase, which I had already put in the attic.

So, I’m adjusting to life at home. I’ve started setting an alarm clock again. I had to cook my own supper. I washed two weeks’ worth of dirty clothes. The toilet grew some funky colored fungi while I was gone. I found two dead scorpions and one belly-up roach as I swept the kitchen floor.

This is my normal life.

Cue the crickets…they’re getting louder.

Now, Jerry…Jerry lives what appears to be an exciting life. We met Jerry in Bar Harbor. He’s a full-time RV-er.

“I’ve been through 48 states in my travels,” says Jerry. “We love being on the road.”

Jerry is not on the move as much as he used to be. He and his wife started out with a dream to see the country from the windshield of their RV. State Parks. National Parks. Private campgrounds. The mountains. The oceans. The wilderness. The major league ballparks. They have seen it all.

“After a few years,” he says, “we had to come up with a different plan.”

That plan led to a new normal for Jerry and his wife. They spend the summer/fall season in Maine. When winter comes, they head to Florida. And in the spring, they set up housekeeping at Glacier National Park. They get temporary jobs in each of those places, which gives them a way to fit right in with the locals.

Home is 400 square feet of tightly packed living space on wheels.

I asked Jerry about his family. I wondered what his kids thought about them being gone all the time. I’m thinking, surely, he misses his grandkids.

“Oh, we facetime a lot. We get to see them and talk with them all the time.”

“What about the holidays?” I asked.

“We do go home for the holidays. We’ll roll in right before Thanksgiving and stay through Christmas. That’s when we head for Florida.”

Marion and I have referred to our travels as adventures. Going into the unknown. Taking the road to some place we’ve never been before. For some of them we have taken the camper. Some, we drove the truck and found a cabin. But we have always known, eventually, that at some point we would come home.

I’m not being critical of Jerry. We met two other couples in Bar Harbor that are doing the same exact thing. If that works for them, more power to them. They were delightful people, full of great stories.

But I don’t know. No real contact for most of the year. No ball games. No school programs. No spend-the-night with Grandpa. I get to do little enough of that as it is. I can’t imagine depending on digital hugs to get me by.

Chirp…chirp…chirp! I hear you buddy.

When I got home the driveway was buried in about three inches of leaves and pine straw. Jerry is not blowing leaves, but I am. It suits me to strap on the backpack blower. At my age, I also wear earmuffs. My hearing is not what it used to be.

For two hours I moved the litter of fall from my driveway and yard. Huge piles of leaves rolling out of my way as I blasted them with my 90 cfm snout. I was like a tail gunner taking aim and obliterating the enemy. Brrr-ttt…brr-ttt…brr-ttt. Dead worms. Pinecones. Broken twigs. Nothing could stand against the force which I held in my hands.

Too dramatic?

I like my home. I’ve lived here longer than I’ve lived anywhere else in my life. Every room tells a story. The walls are full of memories. The fireplace warms me even when there’s no fire just because I like it so much. Even when the kitchen table sits silent, if I listen for it, I can hear the conversations of a thousand nights of supper.

Then, there’s the back porch. My thinking-napping-writing-contemplating-sipping lemonade-cooling off-early morning-owl calling-couch sitting-rustic feeling-inviting-comfy-coffee sipping-fan humming-quiet-listening for God place.

This is the space I dreamed about since we moved in here over 26 years ago. It is my go-to spot in the house. If you come over, as long as it’s not January or August, this is where we’re gonna sit and visit.

I also like my yard. Very little grass to cut right around the house. Surrounded by woods. A few of my favorite plants from the tree farm. There’s a low dry-stacked wall across the far side of my front yard that I built from the fieldstones I piled up as a kid at the farm outside Hampton. It reminds me of the rock terraces in my Big Daddy’s backyard in Social Circle.

Everything here has some part of my blood and sweat invested in it. This place helped raise me in a sense. Before this house, I was rambling, unsure of myself, wondering what I might do with the rest of my life. Then, a thirty-something version of me got the crazy idea he could change his world if he put his mind to it. Work hard. Don’t give up. See it through to the end.

I know how to count my blessings. I feel for those who don’t have a place where they feel like they belong. To be absent and have no longing for home. To have no space where a person can know that he is a part of it, and it a part of him.

I also realize it’s just a house. Sticks and nails. And I may decide one day, before the Lord calls me home, that I can cut myself loose and move on to a new adventure. Nothing wrong with that.

But for now, I’ll set my suitcase down. I’ve got dishes to wash. A project in my shop to finish. More leaves to blow. There’s a couch on the porch that needs my attention.

But you know what feels the best? My bed. That memory foam mattress cover and pillow in Maine liked to have killed me.

Here, I’m at rest. I lay my head down on my pillow. And I start to think…

“I wonder when we’ll go to Montana?”

Chirp…chirp.