I’m in Southern Wisconsin for a few days, wandering around some of the towns and farms where ancestors of mine have dwelt for 170 years. I haven’t lived here since I was five, but deep down in the fibers of my being, this place has always felt like home.

And of course it isn’t my home. I don’t have friends here, I don’t know what’s going on locally, and I’m a stranger to those who pass me in the street. But all four of my grandparents grew up within the same 20 square miles (as did six of eight great-grandparents*), and I have almost a half century of my own memories of visiting family here.

My life has been a series of moves — both in childhood (Edgerton, WI to Syracuse, IN to Lexington, VA) and in adulthood (Williamsburg, VA to Japan to San Francisco to Minneapolis to Los Angeles to Chicago to New York, and back to Minneapolis). What has kept me grounded, in all of this, is a strong sense of where I’m from. I can point to these 20 square miles in rural Wisconsin and say, “That’s home” (and mean it). Do I want to live here? I’m sure I would love living here. It’s fun to be near family and these rolling hills are beautiful, but I suppose I’m content with being an occasional visitor. I am grateful this place exists and that I can come here and reconnect with my roots.

* All eight of my great-grandparents grew up in Southern Wisconsin but two of the six grew up just outside of the little box I’ve drawn on the map.