January, Memory, and the Meaning of Home

January is not only a season of renewal—it is an invitation to pause, look back, and carry what matters forward with intention.

For five academic years, I have known this family. Over time, they have welcomed me into moments of celebration—Fourth of July gatherings, Labor Day festivities, and New Year’s traditions that arrive as faithfully as the calendar itself. This year was different. This year, I found myself arriving unannounced on Thanksgiving Day and again on Christmas Day—seeking refuge, yet received without question. Welcomed all the same.

I believe that happened for two reasons. First, because that space feels like home—or perhaps what we hope home feels like. Second, because being there stirred fragmented childhood memories stretching from my state of birth to the place I now call home.

The matriarch—whose name I will keep close and private—always greets arrivals with a smile as bright as the morning sun. Her kitchen is a gathering place where food is prepared with love, laughter, and celebration. It is the kind of food that touches your soul, seasoned by the presence of both those still living and those lovingly remembered. Her home is open, warm, and inviting. And this year, I tested that openness more than I ever had before.

It reminded me of my maternal grandfather. He was a gambler who hosted poker nights twice a week and cooked all day long. There was always too much food—but what I remember most is that his doors were never locked. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, front and back doors stood open. Food was always available. You didn’t ask. You walked in, searched the refrigerator or pantry, warmed something up, and sat down to eat. He might be napping, watching television, or late into the night playing cards with friends—but the house was always alive.

That same feeling returns to me in Smithville Woods. It mirrors my early years in Spring Hope, North Carolina, where we played outside all day and only came in when the streetlights flickered on. We drank water from garden hoses and spigots on the sides of houses. We snacked on fruit growing in anyone’s yard—berries, apples, peaches, grapes, leafy greens. We pulled them, wiped them on our clothes, ate, and ran back to play.

Sometimes my paternal grandmother would bring out watermelon, served in foil pie pans on the back porch. When we finished, we had to spray the porch down before heading back to play and explore. Hall Drive—our wooded cul-de-sac away from downtown Spring Hope—held everything we needed. On Saturday mornings, Grandma would take us to town to do laundry, then return home with wet clothes to hang across the backyard lines.

Being in Smithville has awakened those memories. The more time I spend there, the more I remember. I love watching children play freely and adults gather for conversation. I don’t know everyone’s name, and each visit introduces me to new faces—yet somehow, everyone belongs. Everyone is family.

This was the first year I stayed through the turn of the New Year and beyond. I didn’t know that annually marked glasses are handed out, filled with champagne, ready for a midnight toast. I stayed longer than I ever had before—for reasons I didn’t yet have words for—and I’m so glad I did.

I left just before the trail ride. Maybe next time. I’ve never been on one, but this year, sleep finally claimed me. I could have stayed the night—I know I would have been welcome—but I chose to return home.

My life, and the families who surround me, are not bound by blood. And I would not have it any other way.

So to this family, I say thank you—for absorbing mine into yours, for opening your doors and your hearts, and for offering an experience that is truly priceless.

We love you all beyond measure.
Happy New Year.