Roots of Home

A house is just a house until you step through the front door and bring "home" in.

~Terry Pottinger

Photo by Barbara Krysztofiak on Unsplash

I've come to believe we carry home with us, like the snail and turtle. Our shells may be invisible, but still intact, wrapped around and in us.

Our backyard in San Diego shaped my earliest memories. I would play ball with our little dog, Coconut, and chase after him, but I was more interested in the insects that crawled beneath our feet, and he would join in the search. One day, at the age of four, I spotted a snail slowly crossing the patio. I got on my knees and crouched down to get a closer look. Coconut came up from behind and nudged the shell with his nose. Instantly, the snail tucked back into its home. I whispered gently that it was safe and asked it to come out again. Slowly it did, and when its antennas went up, I saw eyes at the tips and reached to touch one softly—and it quickly disappeared again. I was heartbroken, apologizing aloud, until it peeked back out. My mom watched the interaction and loved to retell that story to me. It reminds me of how much I love Nature; even back then, it was where I felt most at home.

I was born and raised in San Diego, and except for a couple of years living up the coast as kids, it was where my roots of home were. I grew up, raised my children there, and planted friendships like wildflowers all around the community. We shared school events, park picnics, grocery store encounters, and post-game restaurant gatherings. We knew everyone, and everyone knew us.

As a single parent, I recall one of my teenage sons coming home one night, frustrated after being out with friends. He gave me an annoying glance.

"What's up?" I asked.

Still annoyed, he answered, "Mom! Isn't there anywhere in San Diego I can go where somebody doesn't know you?"

Laughingly, I said, "Evidently not!"

And he left the room with the same attitude he had come in with.

I loved it when the boys tried to get away with something, and before trouble could be played out, they'd bump into friends of our family, which didn't always thrill them. But for me, that was the magic of home.

As I write this story, emotions rise. Those years were some of my most challenging times, but the friendships that held me up were life-altering. I honestly don't think the boys and I could have survived as well as we did without the love and support from our 'heart family' disguised as friends holding their doors and hearts open for us with such strength whenever the situation called for it.

I realize now that we were home for each other and made these times unforgettable through our sense of humor, shoulders to cry on, and the wisdom we learned and shared. We were all in this together, and I wouldn't have changed it for the world.

One Fourth of July, as a single mom, I went to a best friend's annual block party. Kids were everywhere, and the smell of barbecued hot dogs and hamburgers was heavenly. Seeing mouth-watering watermelon, potato salad, and desserts of every kind made me feel I needed to loosen my belt in anticipation. With the mix of the July heat, suntan oil, bands playing songs we all knew, and eating so much delicious food, I needed to take a wee nap somewhere.

I walked in the open door of my friend's home, saw the empty couch calling to me as kids and dogs ran past, collapsed on it, and fell asleep to the sounds of children and fireworks. I was at peace, safe amid a community, surrounded by laughter and unconditional love. That was home for me.

Courtesy of  JillWellington / pixabay.com

Moving ahead to 1999.

As predictable as a new day begins, Life changes, kids graduate from high school, move away to college, or with friends to start their lives as adults. Our good friends become scattered. Some moved to another state, while others changed jobs and lifestyles, and we didn't interact as we used to.

My now-husband returned to my life after 15 years, as if no time had passed at all. Our families had once been close when our children were very young, but time and the military life they lived had separated us, and we lost contact. A lot had changed during those years.

He was looking for me on the email trail, and we reconnected. Later, we used the phone to talk about our lives, and then he came to visit from Pennsylvania. It was innocent enough: sharing stories and photos of the past, dinner with the boys, and reminiscing about what our world was like many moons ago.

And then, cupid's arrow struck, and everything changed—including my idea of home.

We got married in San Diego at the end of 2000, surrounded by more than 200 people from my world. The love in the room was overwhelming. It felt like every chapter of my past had gathered together to bless my future.

A few weeks later, closing loose ends, came the move to Pennsylvania—a new chapter in a different state.

When we went to get my new driver's license, the woman at the desk handed me the finished card and said, "Okay, here is your new driver's license, and welcome to Pennsylvania, your new home."

As I scanned it, I thought, "This doesn't look like a driver's license!"

She then put out her hand and asked for my California one. I looked at my husband, a bit annoyed, and then at the woman.🤨

"You mean, you want my 'real' license?" I responded.

"No," she said. Your 'real' driver's license is the one I just handed you. You now live in Pennsylvania, so the California license is no longer valid."

I looked back at my husband. He smiled and said, "Honey, give her the California license, it's okay." I grudgingly handed it over and felt a whisper of sorts, a stirring inside, but at that moment, I couldn't concentrate on the feeling.

When driving away, and as I pondered that situation, this is what I realized:

When I surrendered my California driver's license for a Pennsylvania one, I wasn't just giving up a piece of plastic. I was surrendering an identity. San Diego was all I had ever known. It was more than a city—it was a feeling, a foundation, a home. So, as I handed over my old license, something in me whispered, "home isn't something you leave behind. It's something you carry forward."

To be continued…

Thought to Ponder:
How and what about your identity has formed the foundation (roots) of who you are?🦋

© 2025 Terry Pottinger

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