That is, Home with a capital H…the home where my parents, your grandparents, live…

8:30PM, after dinner.  In the library, watching Peyton Place.  Mom and Dad on the couch. 

Dad: "I remember the first time I saw this, I was in Louisville Kentucky about to leave for Europe.  I had just finished basic training at Fort Knox."

"YOU did push ups."

"Yes.  Don't look so SHOCKED.  Where are my glasses…"

Yup, my classical-music loving, never exercising father did basic training at none other than, FORT KNOX.  In typical, Tom Dixon fashion, he got himself a swanky Army desk job in Paris (not bad for a book wormy, food loving, romantic French major from Ohio).  Yes, Paris, a place your father and I will take you one day, and then you will go again and learn it for yourself, on your own terms. 

Mom is knitting.  "What are you knitting?' "An afghan for friends for Christmas."  Yes, your grandmother knows how to knit, sew, stitch…CREATE.

"What the hell was her name…the actress…she had a very short movie career…"

"We used to watch Peyton Place at the Kappa House in the 60s."  (Yep, your grandmother was an AVID Kappa Kappa Gamma, and your great grandmother. I was not.  Maybe you will be.)

"OH one of my favorite old tunes!  You'll never know!" 

Avery, and so the conversation goes.  Your grandparents trade memories of actors and actresses, with a wild ability to recall facts, figures and stories about these people they feel the grew up with.

You, sweet pea, are at home with your dad.  I am here helping out with a few things…and, well, spending time.  These notes are nothing fancy, but they portray a pretty typical scene here at Home, that I will miss one day, and that I wish you could see.

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