Before I get into this assignment, I will say that home is a very solid concept in my head.  I have a set understanding of what it is to me, or I should say. Although I lived in the same home in the same small town for 14 years, I associate home with my family. In September, my parents sold our childhood home and moved to Vancouver. Without pausing for a second, when I am asked where my home is I now respond with Vancouver. Not because I don’t think of the 14 years of memories that I cherish on Vancouver Island, but because I know that the people that made it home for me no longer resid there. That being said, I want to talk about the home I grew up in as a second thought as it is where I became who I am today and. 

I grew up in a renovated World War I farmhouse in a small town called Mill Bay, home to only 3000 people. When my parents decided to renovate the home to make it ‘ours’, we placed our three-year-old fingers and toes in the cold cement that still today lay beneath the kitchen tiles. That home will always be ours. We were so dedicated to having a home that was built by us that during this tremendous and tiring process, my family lived in a 1950’s trailer at the end of our driveway. My home was not just within the walls of our Hamptons-style home but within the four acres, that stretched across rolling green hills overlooking the Brentwood Bay on the pacific ocean. Over the 14 years that we lived on Butterfield Rd., our dear dog Reba was always by our side. Being a Rhodesian Ridgeback, our backyard was nothing but paradise. Three cats (outdoor cats, I must specify) tiptoed through our strawberry gardens nuzzling their furry faces against the felted leaves. At one point, we even had four chickens, one for each of us. My chicken was white with widespread feathers, her name was Sasha. At some point, they became too much effort to take care of for my parents and they told us the chickens found a new playpen. Late we would find out that their new playpen was in someone’s stomach. Needless to say, my childhood was very recreational.

Our home was covered in burnt brown shingles, bordered with sharp white trim. It was beachy yet sophisticated. It was humbly beautiful with every inch designed by my parents. It was exactly who my parents are to me. Our porch stretched across the front of the house and on it was a ceramic tiled table and chair set. One of my most prominent memories at our home was Father’s and Mather’s day breakfast in our pajamas sitting around that table with cats in our laps. A gravel driveway stretched from the gardens to the street, the location of many tumbles and falls whilst racing my twin sister to the blackberry bushes. 

Home for me is my dad, my mom, and my twin sister. I was raised in a home where we were never looked down upon for honesty, regardless of how difficult the truth was to hear. My sister and I never felt the need to hide things from my parents because even the most horrible mistakes were approached as a learning experience. We were supported through our best and worst and particularly through anything we wanted to pursue. To date, my parents are the most in love two individuals I have ever had the pleasure of being around. Their love is iconic and inspiring and I can only hope to find what they have. I truly could not imagine a better family to call home.