Throughout my life, I have called about 10 different places home.  Some of them were houses that my parents owned, others were condos, and some were apartments.  Out of all of these places, I really only dream about one “home,” and I find this really weird.

In 1990, my family moved to Georgia from Germany.  My parents built and bought their first house in the little city of Jonesboro.  It was a one-story ranch with a basement that my dad eventually fixed up to contain a guestroom and bathroom, a bar area, an office and a workshop.  We lived in this house for 10 years, and then we sold it and moved to New York.

I have not lived in this house in almost 10 years, but when I have dreams about being home I am always in that house.  I’ve lived in my condo for 3 years, and I can’t remember ever having a dream that involved me living there.  I am always transported back to my family’s first real house in my dreams.

In New York, I never dreamed about our house because I wasn’t fond of it.  I missed my cool basement room in Georgia, so I can understand why the blue NY house never entered my dreams.  But I like my current place, as well as the condo I lived in college.  But I never dreamed of it either.

I’m sure a lot of it stems from spending such a large chunk of my youth there.  I experienced many firsts and life milestones while living there – starting middle school, starting high school, joining color guard, first kisses, learning to drive, sneaking out, sneaking alcohol, my first cigarette, losing a friend in a car accident, getting my first cats, and many more.  I have many fond memories from living there, and even some painful ones, but I guess some little part of me still considers that place home, even though it’s been a decade since I’ve lived there.

Has that happened to any of you before?  I wonder how long it will take me to start dreaming of a home that is actually mine?  I guess this means I harbor some pretty strong ties to my old homestead.