Thanksgiving, Hanukkah, Christmas—these holidays mark a season of homecoming for so many of us. But what does “home” truly mean to you? Years ago, my parents uprooted our family from the geographic place I still call my hometown and relocated us to another spot where I spent my formative years. I’m deeply drawn to both locations, yet I live in neither. Today, I reside in the town where my wife and I raised our two kids and built our careers. While I cherish this house and community, it has never quite felt like home.
My mother discovered this town long ago while searching for a vacation spot roughly midway between the cities where my brother and I were born and the one he now calls home. By coincidence, my father had a colleague with a vacation home here, and we later shared joyful times there with his family.
I’m profoundly connected to places—their climates, geography, and ecosystems. Mountains, in particular, captivate me across every season: the vibrant renewal of spring, the lush adventures of summer, the golden hues of autumn, the crisp stillness of winter, and even the messy transition of mud season. My favorite pursuits thrive here. Right outside my front door, I can stroll to a stream for fly-fishing trout or hit the trails for a run. A bit farther, and I’m downhill skiing or grouse hunting. With a short drive, cross-country skiing or elk hunting awaits (though I pursue the latter with more enthusiasm than skill). Effortlessly, I can embark on short thru-hikes, or with a little planning, join sections of the Continental Divide Trail. This place even lets me gather firewood for our hearth—a chore I both adore and dread, filled with the sharp scent of fresh-cut conifer mingled with two-stroke exhaust.
Yet, it doesn’t resonate as home. I believe I lost that profound sense when my parents passed away. My mother went first. Afterward, my father no longer wanted to stay in the house that my children remember fondly as their grandparents’ home—the one from our family vacations and gatherings. So, my brother and I helped him relocate closer to my brother, where he could continue running the family business they shared (which my brother now manages solo). I never warmed to Dad’s new house, and after his death, my brother and I poured effort into renovating it before selling.
In adulthood, I’ve driven past every childhood home I’ve known. I’ve also revisited the places I’ve lived since, usually in person, though sometimes via real estate sites like Zillow or maps on Google. Only two stir that deep yearning for home: the final house in my birth town and the primary one after our family move. Both are post-war, single-story ranches—a style I still favor. The first, nearly a decade older, boasts oak floors throughout. The second sat slab-on-grade with the era’s garish mid-60s carpeting, until my parents renovated and expanded it.
Our current house felt more like home during my parents’ frequent visits. They adored my wife and kids, and they relished returning to this town for fishing, skiing, shopping, and dining—just as we did on those childhood vacations. It’s been a gift to discover the autumn aspens’ glow and spring’s tentative warmth in ways we never did as visitors.
My wife and I have strived to create a true home here for our family. It’s undeniably comfortable, if careworn, with endless draws pulling us in. But a certain resonance is absent—perhaps the echo of shared history or unbreakable family ties.
When you envision home, it’s those intangibles that claim space in your heart, soul, and mind. We’re all drawn to a sanctuary: for some, a fleeting tent in the woods; for others, a bustling city mansion; for most, a modest retreat from the world’s chaos. What defines yours? And how might someone like me rediscover that feeling once more?
Michael H. Ritterhouse 
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