You can't take the honky-tonk outta the girl.

I just returned from a week spent in the small Iowa town I grew up in. I attempted to debrief on my sunny drive home through the corn fields and cow pastures while listening to commercial-free country. I eventually got caught up in the paradox of my transitional/do I even have a permanent address life and gave up, uninspired.

Until I got to work.

We're creating posters for a competition through NAHRO based on the theme, "What Home Means to You". I got a number of landscapes and houses on a hilltop pictures. Then Deon showed me his -- HEY, DEON -- written in large bubble letters.

Well, those are some sweet bubble letters, Deon, I said, but not really what we're going for here.

Let me explain, he said, Home to me is everyone yelling my name...my mom, my friends, my neighbors...because they all want to talk to me or ask me a question or hang out. Get it now?

Got it. Wow, Deon. You are exactly right.

For the past week I had people yelling my name at the OK Cafe, Northwestern's commencement, Barnes and Noble in Kansas City, Pizza Ranch, the Koffie Hoek, Fareway, my parent's kitchen, Dairy Dandy, along the Tulip Festival parade route, on the patio, at our five-year class reunion, at Double D, in Wal-Mart and driving down Frankfort Ave.

I completely agree with Deon, home is where everybody knows your name. And, oh, how sweet it is.