HOME. Sweet, sweet home.

As wonderful of an opportunity that it is to be in other countries and all over the United States, my absolute favorite place to go is still the country. Of Kentucky. Where my family is. And where my dirty, disobedient, and could-be-mistaken for-junkyard-inhabitant pets live.

Contrary to popular belief and misconceptions, we do wear shoes. We have teeth. And I've fortunately not met anyone that married their cousin. 

My family lives in a small plot of land that got a name and a zip code. We're forty-five minutes from any 'big city.' The sign for the post office is bigger than the building itself. There's a general store called (wait for it) 'STORE,' and it's not uncommon to be late getting to work because you got stuck behind a tractor.

It's a place where the grand opening of a giant grocery store called for the presence of the mayor and the local high school's marching band. It's the little things, people.

There are few words to describe how much I love retiring my suitcase for a few days and waking up to drink french press coffee with ice in a mason jar and farm fresh cream from our cows down the road (Natasha and Miss White, respectively).

In the evenings, we walk. It never gets old, and it never gets less beautiful. My mom and sisters and I never stop believing that we can make the feral barn cats love us, even when they resist and someone reminds us we could possibly be infected by disease.

And you haven't seen stars until you've laid on my driveway and seen where God keeps all of them.

That's a sculpture in our yard. Not a crazy silhouette on the side of our house.

"I THINK I HAVE POISON IVY NOW FROM THAT TINY HOUSE"

My sister. She's pretty and sweet. That's a special combination.

My family has mannequins. No, we don't really have a reason beyond scaring people with them.