I sit down on the front porch to take a break. This is my porch. Such a strange thought to have, I know, but I've waited my entire life for this, to be able to sit down and call something my own. Out of all the places that I've lived this is the first one with a porch. Well, there was a place in Post Falls Idaho - a blue grey ranch with an attached one-car garage - but it would be classified as a stoop rather than a porch. A stoop doesn't have character like a porch - that's the difference. While I didn't grow up at my dad's house in the hills of Seattle, Washington, I feel at home there. I picture my porch looking like his one day, airy and inviting with handmade furniture and a swing made for two. In the springtime mine will be rebuilt and replaced with new wood. It will be made larger - stretched out along the front windows - to accommodate a few chairs. In the summer I envision light conversations, glasses of wine or lemonade with slow melting ice cubes, and laughter - how exciting! During the winter the porch will be shoveled of snow - depending on my desire to do it - just waiting for spring to thaw it out and start the process all over again.

From my seat I look over at the pine tree rooted in our front yard which must be ancient. It reminds me of Idaho - the place I lived the longest and grew most attached to. Woodsy and green, those were the days of my growing up. The grade school I attended - Ponderosa - had expansive grounds covered in none other than Ponderosa pines. They filled in the acres of property and sheltered the school. In autumn, I remember venturing deep into the trees and the starkness of the crackle and snapping of fallen branches under my feet. My friends and I used the Pine's limbs as "brooms" to clear out large areas underneath the trees. We would make these hideaways our "home" and play house. Swept clean we'd section off bedrooms and a bathroom and a kitchen. Fallen needles were gathered and used as "blankets". Pieces of bark and sticks would be our dishware and utensils. We'd lose ourselves in these games until the bell rang. During the winters the snow would fall and when there was enough of it, the white fluff would muffle sounds. During recess I would go out to these trees heavy with snow and kick the bases just to see and feel the clumps of snow fall all around me. "Whump!" - a thick heavy sound and then silence. I come out of my reverie and see only the hammer with the bright yellow handle lying at my feet.

"Jen!" "Can you get me the nail gun?" Eric yells again. I breathe deep and push myself off the porch. A few months ago the idea of replacing a roof or building out a dormer on the second floor of a house in Chicago's northwest suburbs didn't cross our minds. Eric and I had been thinking about buying a place and were casually looking - a condo in Schaumburg, a coach home in Elk Grove Village, a townhouse in Mount Prospect. Nothing seemed to be right. But what were we looking for? A place to invite friends over for martinis or generous glasses of wine or one to sit in and enjoy steaming pasta with crusty garlic bread in front of a warm fireplace? Don't forget scoops of Rocky Road and Chocolate Peanut Butter ice cream from Baskin Robbins! What about children? Yes, we've considered them and yes, they are in our future. These thoughts were racing through our minds in place after place; all which failed to convince us that we were doing the right thing, until we saw 1340 Harding Avenue in Des Plaines.

The first time we walked into the house it was pitch dark. The only light came from a dim ceiling fixture, which cast everything in shadows. We took his Sister's advice. She said we "had to see this place." Seeing a place is different for us than the normal house hunter. Eric is a contractor, which affords us the luxury of buying a "handyman special" and working our tails off to create the home of our dreams. The places we "saw" ranged from downright dumpy to just above downright dumpy. Harding fell into the latter category.

All conventional wisdom told us that we were crazy. Walk away from this! You don't know what you're getting into! What convinced us weren't dark cherry wood floors, bright white chair moldings, vintage fixtures, or granite countertops rather crumbling plaster walls, stained shag carpeting, and a gaping hole in the ceiling where an old tub was falling through. Nearly 105 years old the ancient structure needed a complete re-haul. The place was a wreck, a nightmare - with potential for beauty.

I walk around the back to look for the nail gun and as I round the corner of the crumbling cement drive it hits me - a wave of memories of my own childhood and the outdoors that I played in, cried in, ran angry through, and laughed in. I don't know if it's because Post Falls, Idaho, was such a small town or because my family lived close together, but I always felt included and that I was a part of something special. No matter what family member's house I was at, it felt like home to me. After my parent's divorce when I was four, my mom bought a house in a growing subdivision - the one with the stoop. This is where I learned to ride a bike and to jump over fences instead of walking around the block. (I broke my first bone doing that). Finding the nail gun I reach down and before picking it up I sweep my hand over the grass and close my eyes and the memories flow through my mind even more vividly.

I recall taking thousands of walks in the summer down the gravel road that was First Street, past rows of houses, to the very end where wooded trails began. The trails were fun and exciting because one didn't always know where one was going. I remember that the end of the adventure was always the same though - the Cove - a favored swimming hole in the area. This place had a special effect on me. It was a place where time stood still and good memories lasted forever. Surrounded by tall pines and untouched valleys it sported a private beach with hot sand. All the local kids went there to cool off in the summer or to meet up with friends. We'd bring inner tubes, rafts, towels and bathing suits. Water lapped against the edges of an alcove beckoning us to walk to it. Once there the cool water would lap at our feet, teasing us to venture even further to a jagged rock that hid far beneath the surface about 10 feet from shore. It was always our goal to try and reach the rock and when we did it was like we'd won the lottery. Little toes, straining downward, would scrape the tip of the stone and we'd be giddy knowing that we had made it - each successful trip making us feel older and wiser. Then we'd tread water just beyond the rock and tilt our faces to get the sun's full attention. Rough stones and sharp pine needles didn't stop us from running at top speed and plunging 30 feet, arms spread wide open, to the fresh water. It seemed like forever before we'd reach the sparkling destination. A rosy glow and the

I enter the back door and make my way through the house to the stairs to deliver the requested tool to Eric. Stop. Look around. Remember when we bought the place? A smile comes over my face. All the rooms were separate. They didn't flow right and weren't connected except by a narrow doorway - it was as if the rooms didn't really know each other. Since then we've been able to literally break down the walls and open up the kitchen, dining room and living room to create spaces that pour into the next without interruption. I'm so proud of us! I never thought we'd get past the clouds of plaster that swirled around us, coating our hair and skin - it looked like we'd been hit by a delivery truck on its' way to drop off bags of flour to a bakery. To see the transformation is amazing. Our hands are making this happen. Granted, we are taking our time - it's been nearly a year since we bought the house - but that's just it. It's our time. When we are here we are in tune with the house and each other. Time flows and our minds open up to the possibilities of what everything will look like when we're done.

Now that the walls are open and the memories of someone else's life have been stripped away, I can visualize more clearly what we will put in it. I want to take my time with the decorating and designing. A collection of photographs depicting good times with family and friends will hang on the walls and tell stories - a laugh over a silly joke, a moment in the Idahoan sun on a July afternoon, a game of crocket with socks off, and three generations collecting hay off a Serbian landscape while the sun's going down. Two maps - one of Idaho and one of Yugoslovia, Eric's place or origin - will be blown up and framed. An old cast iron fireplace, the same one my grandfather, my mom's dad, used to feed while he worked on the Santa Fe Railroad, will sit in the corner of the living room. Maybe it will hold a potted fern, which came from a cutting that I had taken from my grandmother in Idaho. An end table or a coffee table will hold the beautiful chessboard and elegant pieces that my Dad and I made one year.

I remember we had some good laughs making the board. The two of us found one small piece of mahogany given to my Dad by an uncle who passed away a couple years earlier. It was hidden way in the back of his garage with a layer of dust that seemed about an inch thick. We reached for it together as if we both thought of Uncle Shirley in the same moment.

"Let's use this piece," I said.

My dad took it from my hands, blew off the years of dust with one breath and eyed it with the attention of a seasoned craftsman. I watched him cut the wood into precise sections and then, side-by-side, we painstakingly put the board together, alternating pine and mahogany, and sanded it to a smooth finish. A pine border and little pine feet finished the project off. Once completed we sat back taking pride in what we had created as daughter and dad. After the break we took a trip to the local Hobby Lobby in search of unique wood pieces so we could create pawns, queens, kings, bishops, horses, and rooks that would compliment the board. When we returned I worked on arranging the pieces we bought and then we stained them to match the board. With the pieces drying in the sun we turned our attention back to the board and carefully poured a thick layer of lacquer of over the top to protect it from damage. Unfortunately - even though it looked perfect to us - we realized there were several air pockets causing horrendous bubbles to come up through the lacquer. Determined to save the board we tried scrapping the thick goo off with sticks - anything to remove it. Instead of saving it, we only managed to damage it further. The scene of us trying to get the stuff off was pretty funny - we felt like crying, but we had to laugh. That's one of the best memories I have of time spent with my dad. It was a couple of years later that he finally sanded the bubbles off as best he could and sent it to me in the mail. When I opened the package all of those wonderful memories came flooding back - the custom chess pieces, I imagined, finally felt at home when they rested on the slick board. I let out a sigh of resolution knowing the project had come full circle. Now, when I play a game with Eric or when my Dad comes to visit and we have a cup of coffee, we laugh as we remember the experience.

Going back to reality I walk up the stairs to the landing on the second floor. Eric sees me and reaches down through the huge gaping hole in the roof to take the nail gun. He's working on building a dormer - it will open up the landing and allow much more light to come in. Standing there I look through the doors to the master bedroom and guest room. They are stark, naked, covered in dust. I'm not sure what we will put up here yet or what the color palette will be. When I think back the colors blue and green seem to be prevalent. Blue carpeting and soft olive lines weaved in the linoleum tile of the First Street house. Blue curtains and grey-blue paint on the siding. Maybe we'll pick a blue like the Idaho sky on a perfect day in June or green like the waters of the Cove at seven o'clock on a Sunday evening in August. Maybe they'll be a soft yellow or a burnt orange to spark our memories of spring flowers or warm salted pumpkin seeds. Maybe I'll wallpaper the guest room in a silver purple cloud design, put in a wicker day bed with fluffy pillows and pretend that I'm 10 years old again. A lacy doily that my grandmother crocheted will lie on a dresser, worn blankets that once covered our loved ones will be thrown over an armchair or folded gently at the foot of the bed and the rocking chair that my mom used to rock me to sleep in will be ready for my babies - it's fabric and leather patched to preserve it as long as possible.

One thing is for certain; we will fill them with things that remind us of home. Our children will grow up and remember what it was like living here. They will have a concept of "home". It will be different for them - their memories and feelings will be unique. In a sense though it is the same for all of us - an emotional connection that stays with us and allows us to carry a piece of "home" around no matter where we go. It's finding yourself again and again even though you've lived years of life.

Way up in the Idahoan mountains I thought there was no place else on earth and that I'd never grow old. Now, separated by years of life and thousands of miles, I know that's not true. Sometimes something jars my memory, like the smell of pine or the clouds in the distance, that remind me of those mountains. No matter how much time passes I will always be connected to the special place I called "home." I turn back toward the open roof and sprinkles of warm sunshine shower my face through the pine needles. Eric peaks in, his head blocking the sun, and says "Don't you just love our new home?" Yes, yes I do.