After jerking away the dead compass plant stalks poking in myriad directions from our triangular prairie-plant garden, and a half dozen batches of another dried plant, we had a nice little bonfire going in our pit when Roberta said, “It’s good being home. I enjoy looking around and being surrounded by the beauty of the prairie.”

This coming from a child of Milwaukee, one who had spent much of her married life in the woody hills of the Driftless, was high praise. 

Home.

Not unlike my partner, I grew up in the wooded hilly land of Northeast Missouri, not too distant from Mark Twain’s bluffy Hannibal, so like her, I love trees. Home meant being surrounded by maples, oaks and especially shagbark hickory. And, also like her, I also realize that as we drift into our elder years that living in the prairie was hardly on our individual bucket lists. 

Later in the afternoon we took a drive around the neighborhood. Deep, dark blue stormy-like clouds loomed along the western horizon, and it appeared rain was falling in the distant east. As we left Listening Stones Farm we spied a rainbow off in the eastern sky. So we adventured down a gravel two miles north of us and drove toward the rainbow, stopping intermittently to grab a few images. I had a wetland in mind a few miles away. Unfortunately clouds blanketed the arc.

That rainbow was the first of many nice images offered on our multiple-mile loop through what remains of the prairie pothole ecosystem. We would come across mallards, a lone pair of Northern Pintails, and on the surface of another wetland, a flock of Canvasbacks. At the apex of our loop a pair of Yellow Legs ambled through the shallows of yet another wetland. 

Have I mentioned the clouds? That continually evolving sky-scape rising from the horizon, clouds painted with the ambient colors of an invisible sunset hidden by deep blue curtain of storm clouds. Where was Monet and his easel? 

Home.

We had just returned from a week-long longboat trip up the Danube, from Budapest to Regenburg, Germany, where we had passed numerous picturesque villages, vineyards climbing steep hills, steeples of aged-old churches and even a few castles. Spring was breaking through all along the river, and some of the trees were coming to life with colorful blooms. Cormorants were busy building and guarding rookeries in trees alongside the river. We were in the midst of a grand and picture-worthy adventure, one that included a tour of a private estate for some homemade beer in the Bavarian hills. Peacocks, a pair of guard geese and well tended horses ventured over the greening grounds, all part of a forthcoming promise of spring complete with greening grasses and emerging spring flowers. Through it all, though, despite the peacefulness and beauty, there was never a sense of wondering about having a life there in the Bavarian countryside. We were passing through. 

Later, as our plane left Munich, we flew over much of the same countryside where small villages poked from the hillsides in all directions, all connected by strings of two-lane highways. It was hilly, quaint and beautiful. So  comfortable looking. It wasn’t home.

Having lived along the Mississippi River in various stops in my career, and after a dozen years of living and working in Colorado, thinking this little patch of basically flattened prairie would eventually feel as “home” would have taken a long stretch of imagination. I didn’t even know this landscape existed, and as a traveler passing through there wasn’t much to inspire a life here. That changed some 11 years ago with the start of a short, failed marriage. I knew a few people around the area thanks to my connections to the arts community, but otherwise I was a complete stranger. 

It’s taken awhile. It’s not like we’re in a remote Bavarian village with a language barrier. Yet, we’re somewhat “remote” with our’s being the only year-round residence within a five-mile stretch of gravel road. We are slowly gaining a few more friends; some coming, some going, some just hanging around.

Still, we are offered an almost daily menu of colorful sunrises and sunsets. Where our woods play host to occasional wild turkeys, wood ducks and piliated woodpeckers. Where pheasants “bark” from the staunch depths of our big bluestem prairie. Where deer come and go in their infinite movement between prairie groves. Where our dog, Joe Pye, laid claim to this patch of prairie some ten years ago and seems to rather stubbornly guard it day and night (even if it comes from the foot of our couch!). 

So what makes a place home? How does one measure the comfort in reaching the foot of the driveway after being gone for awhile? Or, in closing your eyes to breathe in a relaxing sigh knowing it is okay to ease into a chair on a sun-drenched deck with a glass of sun tea? Or know there is a nice wooden bench partially hidden in the grove offering an occasional perch to watch leaves flutter in the wind or to spy on summer warblers; to walk through the paths in the prairie in search of new wonders, or to recognize the return of an old one? Our kitchen felt home-like from the moment I walked into the house years ago in the “look through,” although I thoroughly disliked the two double-hung window above the sink. Those were replaced with a single space filling framed “picture” window that brought the outdoors inside, a perfect spot to watch those nightly sunsets while making dinner. 

Home. What more could it be?