To me home is where my family is, I’m lucky enough for that home
to also be in Tassie.
My Dad is one of 11 kids and
growing up, there was always family around. We lived in a small country town,
next door was my Nan and Pop and scattered around were aunties, uncles and
many, many cousins.
It is our family land, my Pop always wanted it to be kept in
the family. My Dad feels just as
strongly about it and he still calls it home after 63 years. It is beautiful land with wonderful mountain
There was a time when I didn’t appreciate what I had in
Tassie and ventured to Queensland. After three months I’d found a great job and was living in a beautiful old Queenslander
with two of my closest friends, but something was missing.
It was time to go home.
Coming home was joyfull, people say it is often and I know it
to be true for me, you don’t know what you have until it’s gone.
I was back to the familiarity of my family home, a home
where I had so much history. Helping Mum
and Dad renovate, learning to cook, learning to drive, handing tools to my Dad
when he was working on cars. We spent so
much time together, Mum and Dad taught me so much and believed in my ability to
do whatever I wanted. I was expected to
be respectful, but at the same time, allowed to be my own person with my own
Being home makes me feel safe, happy, loved.
Last week was One Girl’s response to guest blogger, Russell Kelly’s post – Going home: 6 signs my heart was telling me to come home to Hobart. This week is the Other Girl's response.
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Labels: What home means to me