I’ve lived in Virginia for 21 years. It’s where we’re raising our children, where we work and have friends. But sometimes I yearn not for the home I live in now, but for the home of my youth. So two days ago, Claire and I headed west on I-66, toward the foothills of the Blue Ridge, past the broad, beautiful Shenandoah Valley and into the great heart of this country. We drove through Mooresville and Elkins and Charleston and Huntington and Winchester and, finally, into Lexington. This is horse country: white fences and rolling hills. It’s a land of big meadows and few trees. But on this visit I’ve found myself looking down at the earth and the first few snowdrops of spring. It’s the Kentucky soil I romped and played on as a child, and I need to touch it every so often. The green grass of home.