“Far from home” is a relative thing, depending on where you define home. And as time passes, and “Home” changes, so does what we think of as far from it.
I was 14 when we moved from Lexington, Mass. to Salt Lake City. Not only did I see myself as moving 2/3 of the way across the country, I thought I was moving out to the wild west. It was 1974, I’d grown up on The Brady Bunch and John Wayne movies, so I won’t fault myself for really believing I was going to live on a ranch and ride my horse to school every day. Nope, no such luck. It was a city. Very small city by my east coast eyes, but still my school had no hitchin’ posts, the sidewalks were concrete instead of wood and there were buildings more than 2 stories tall.
When I first saw this house, it seemed like the furthest thing from home. All our furniture and worldly belongings were lost somewhere in the mid-west so the moving company put us up in a hotel. For about two months “home” was an empty shell we were painting and re-flooring, the breakfast table was at Marie Callender’s restaurant and dinner was whatever fast food place struck our fancy that night. But, despite still considering myself (partly) a Bostonian, it did become home and even though I was no longer living there when it was sold, it was hard to see it go.