Thirty-three years.

That’s my age.

That’s how long I’ve been on this green earth, and for that, I am thankful.

This past weekend, I spent my birthday with my parents at home, and left to come back here feeling great.

There were many moments during the three-day venture that I’ll cherish; from arriving on Friday night and spending time with my aunt, to spending time with my both of my parents.

But, the thing that stands out the most is recalling memories.

My mom — and I’m thinking any mom, really — loves to talk about our childhood. There’s something to seeing the smile that comes across her face when she recalls when I was a youngster.

The one story that stirred up good memories was when I was visiting my grandfather (mom’s dad) in Fayette.

Apparently at 3 and a half years old, I was wrestling and tussling with my dad and brother, when all of a sudden, a door fell on me, causing my legs to break.

I don’t remember what it felt like to have them break, but I’m sure I was in pain.

We went to the hospital in Tuscaloosa, and then home to Fairhope.

My mom was told by the doctor that I had to stay as still as possible.

“I knew that wasn’t going to happen,” she quipped.

Well, to make a long story short (too late, right?) my legs healed and I went about being a normal child.

I don’t know why that story stuck with me after this weekend.

Maybe it’s because it brought a certain amount of joy/amusement to my parents (my dad helped, too) when they recalled it to me.

Since that day, there have been many stories that we discuss at times when I get home, which is now a lot easier being that I live so close to home.

After this weekend I learned that even though home is where the heart is. It’s also where happy memories are, too.