I am making friends 

Don't laugh. It's true.

I'm developing regular haunts, places to eat, a few place places to drink. (Let's be honest, it's the Wisconsin Northwoods -- there are more than a few places to drink.)

At one restaurant, the server knows when I walk in at noon Wednesday that I'm having a bowl of the homemade chicken dumpling soup. It's the kind of dumpling soup where the dumplings are flat, my preference. One bowl, with a fistful of crackers, along with a drink, comes to $4.85. (Oh, the dollar goes a long way here, my friends.)

At one place, the bartender can see me coming through a window so she has a Jack Daniels Manhattan with extra bitters sitting at my favorite spot.

Clerks at a nearby grocery store recognize me as the sandwich, lemonade guy. That's my lunch right now before I get my cooking stuff here.

And some folks are comfortable enough with me to talk smack. At another bar, my Sunday afternoon stop, a regular noted my mask and said, "I see you're wearing a diaper on your face." Without hesitation, I said, "That's because I was talking shit about you."

Laughs all around as well as a customary -- and sometimes competitive -- round of drinks.

Let's face it. Home isn't just about an address.

It's about a friends and familiarity, help and support, listening and reacting. A litany of why humans need other humans.

Peace and friendship and a beautiful weekend unto you my brothers and sisters.