I was raised in a small town on a 100-acre century family farm. It was a little slice of heaven to grow up on. 

My grandma owned the property and had lived there as a child but never as an adult. My parents raised me on that farm. For 21 years, it was the only home I had ever known. 

Summers were filled with fishing in the pond, exploring the wooded fields and walking down by the creek, riding my bike down the dirt road and picking blackberries for my dad. Winters were filled with building snowmen and sitting by the fireplace. I couldn't have asked for a better place to call home during my childhood. 

Time has taken its toll on the home that I loved. The red barn isn't as vibrant or strong as it used to be. The forest green shutters are nearly void of their color. Our playground barely stands any longer and the long flower bed is no longer but despite all of that, I still see this place as home.

As a young girl, I always thought I would raise my own family there but life took some turns and that's not how it turned out. Soon the farm will be owned by someone else, it's nearly 130-year history in the same family gone. I wish it didn't have to be so, I wish my babies were running through the fields as I watched from the back deck but nevertheless, this place will always be HOME.