Many people have what they would call a “second home”. This could be a family member’s house, a popular diner in town, or even something like a secluded spot in the forest with good scenery. Fact is, as long as it gives rise to a feeling of safety and comfort, it can really be anything.

My second home growing up had always been my grandparents house. The tiny house, only having one bathroom and two bedrooms, stood out to me as a relic of the past. Maintained, but lived in. Sturdy, but weary. Compared to the surrounding houses in the neighborhood, trashed and abandoned, failing the test of time, my grandparent’s house looks the same now as I imagine it did 50 years ago. 

The house was located smack in the middle of Columbia, Missouri, in a neighborhood less than five minutes away from the bustling city blocks plagued with daily tragedy that frequently seeped into the surrounding areas. Just down the street from the house featured a row of similarly sized homes with an arrangement of nearly 15 government-subsidized housing complexes.

During the summers between the ages of 6 and 12, my brother and I would take a two hour drive down to Colombia and my parents would drop us off for a week, every other week. Every time I arrived, I would plop my things down and take in my surroundings, to see what had changed. While the general clutter of the living room changed every day, the things that always stayed the same with each visit are the things that come to mind when I think of ‘Home’. The frayed carpet with exposed hardwood flooring peeking through, the lingering smell of cigarette smoke and the resulting yellowing of the windows and furniture and the ridiculously large box tv that always seemed to be displaying a basketball game or cartoon network.

The most memorable moments I spent in Colombia were with my grandparents. With my grandpa, I would help him mow lawns and complete a large assortment of odd jobs around the city. We painted sheds, unclogged rain gutters and would even get groceries for the disabled and old folks in the neighborhood. We spent a long time on most jobs because there is nothing my grandpa hates more than a half-finished job. Being forced to get up and do manual labor never was fun or exciting, but spending those summers with my grandpa helped forge many of my core values.

My grandma is simultaneously the kindest, but fiercest person I know. She would never hold her tongue when she had something to say, and when she had a problem with someone, everyone knew. Despite that fierceness, She always went the extra mile to help anyone she saw in need. She was like a mother figure to several of the kids in the neighborhood. The most important thing to Grandma is church, and we would go every Sunday. My brother, cousins, Grandma and I would pack into her Kia Soul and drive 40 minutes North to Moberly, a small town where her church was. My grandma taught Sunday school after mass in the morning, and once Sunday school was over, there was always a large arrangement of homemade food for all the kids.

I also spent a great deal of time out and about the neighborhood, where I met slightly older kids who I would constantly be eager to challenge in some way, be it basketball, racing, climbing or fighting. While I was usually unsuccessful in these challenges, it was some of the first times I had been truly sparked through competitiveness and it forced me to learn how to lose gracefully. Even when we were away from the house, we all found ways to make everywhere a place to play. While my grandma would go inside a gas station, we would run around the parking lot, weaving through cars and jumping on large trash cans. When we went to church, we always ran around the grass lot behind the church and would try to climb the light poles scattered in the parking lot. I found out you can have fun anywhere as long as you’re with the right people.

Spending summers in Colombia taught me lessons, gave me insight on several different things and allowed me to meet a myriad of different people. However, rather than any specific activity or event, the thing about those summers that stuck out to me the most was how I felt. Not every day was a good day, and sometimes I wished I was back home, sleeping on my bed. But, no matter what, whether I was crammed in the back seat of my grandma’s car, mowing lawns with my grandpa, playing outside with the neighborhood kids or just watching cartoons in the house, I had always had that feeling of belonging. The feeling of home. My second home isn’t just that tiny house my dad grew up in. My second home was my grandparents and the local Colombia community, who always welcomed, loved and guided me. They still are.