Emotional support house

Kym Seabolt's house

“How can you live in the middle of nowhere” is a question I never understand. First of all, it’s not “nowhere.” I mean wherever you are, there you are.  

To most people, I guess “nowhere” means we don’t have neighbors all around us pressing close to the property line. We also don’t have as much pavement as other places do. It’s more gravel and grit than cement and blacktop around here. I like it.  


Also, I never feel lost here in “nowhere.” We have the technology now that allows me to wind up my horseless carriage and cruise into nearby villages and towns. Sometimes we go hog wild and travel all the way to the big city! Not too often though. That seems uppity.

We have lived in this big white house on a hill for over two decades. We brought our babies home to this house. We raised our family — and some of their friends — here. In the past year, both children have grown and flown the nest as they should. This is good and right and wonderful. Still, I thrill to the kids “coming home.” 

My daughter recently sent me a social media video, posted by a neighbor actually, that summed it up well. “One thing about me is I will always find a reason to go to my parents. One minor inconvenience? On my way home. Coffee didn’t taste good today? See you in an hour mom. Procrastinating studying? I heard the dogs miss me. It’s sunny outside? A nice day for a drive.” 


We like to have Sunday dinners and lay around on the porch while watching some of us hit golf balls across the property. We eat too much and laugh enough and have a wonderful time.  

At the end of the day, there might be a little more mess, but it’s worth every dirty dish and errant ball. We don’t do this every weekend of course, but when we can, it feels magical.  

In the midst of many life challenges and changes, BoyWonder and his lovely fiance, announced one afternoon that they were making the five-hour round trip home just to spend the day. I’m always happy to have them but it was a completely normal, do-nothing, kind of day. “I have nothing planned,” I said. 

“Perfect” was their reply.  

The very next day a beloved niece stopped in to process some news. She said she just felt like she wanted to come to our house. I get that. As an aside, later news was much better and for that, we are truly grateful.  


As these children have begun house hunting for their own place to thrive, I realize how important the heritage of our homes really is. We are stayers, not flippers. 

Most of our lineage is made up of people who lived in the same home for five to seven decades. We just don’t jump around much. We find a place and we settle in and we love it. Fiercely. 

I know families who are equally solid and have moved more times than they can count — sometimes twice in one year. One didn’t even have time to have her new furniture delivered before they were on the move again. 

Such is the case in today’s far-flung careers. There is no one “right” way to live but for me, it’s always been necessary to have roots.  

Now BoyWonder is prowling the region where his career took him looking for a little land and an old house to call his own. He’s finding that they could have bought a house at least a half dozen times if he liked subdivisions or living in a town or village. All of that is lovely and charming but alas, not really his thing.  

In the immortal words of the Beatles, he’s a real nowhere man.

Having grown up with woods and trees, and space to roam, he has found that living in the middle of nowhere really can be everything.  


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