My friend Richard lives just a short drive from the ocean, but he said he smells it more than he sees it. We agreed I should visit him so that he can remember why he moved to this particular place on the planet.

“I understand,” I said. “I am much more likely to go to upper park when we have visitors in town.”

And so it goes — we’ll board an airplane to see faraway mountains, when we could drive 3 hours to see our resident trees.

My boss and I have been hosting three visiting scholars from Kazakhstan, one who brought her entire family. They’re here for a year, so we have some time to show them the best of each season.

We have a good thing going in Chico. Among the recent adventures was the Almond Bowl, which is about as American as you can get. I smiled so much my face hurt. Likewise for the Book Family Farm, where the kids wandered through tall cover crop and came face-to-face with goats.

I’ve been thinking a lot about patriotism, likely because we are on the eve of the nation’s 250th anniversary. “Webster’s Dictionary” defines the word as love or devotion for country, but I also think we have love and devotion for our state, our town, perhaps even our neighborhood. Most of us look out for those around us and acknowledge that the place where we choose to live is part of what makes us who we are.

When I spend time with people from around the world, I notice that others love the places and people that make them feel at home.

Recently, our group piled into two minivans and took a trip to the Northern California coast — six adults from Kazakhstan and five young people. My last trip across the mountains via Highway 299 was before the Carr Fire. The chaparral has filled in around the blackened trunks of what was once a dense forest. If this had been my first trip, I might not have looked so closely, but my memories filled in how the sloped hillsides looked just a decade ago.

The forest grew more dense as we headed west, and I talked intermittently as the miles wore on, answering questions and reassuring those in my car that I knew the location of a clean bathroom.

When I’m particularly content, I will hum to myself and sometimes not even know I’m making sound. As I navigated turns,,I noticed I was humming “America the Beautiful,” the Ray Charles version (https://tinyurl.com/mrydyj4e).

Curving through the mountains, watching the post-fire rebound, showing off “my place” to visitors, reminded me of how I’m in awe of California, which is very much like Shell Silverstein’s “The Giving Tree.” Humans have found ways to tap abundant resources, and California keeps giving.

Would I feel the same if I had been born and raised in Oregon or Colorado, or Turkmenistan or Slovakia, or any other place where people live, laugh and love the people around them?

I’m fortunate. I will never know.

Now our visitors are also in awe of California, including Burney Falls, the resident humpback whales at Sue-Meg State Park and the mammoth redwoods at Founder’s Grove.

Several days later, Anina invited me to one of those cool Chico parties where you take your shoes off at the door and guests place their best dish on the kitchen counter. Halfway through the evening, half a dozen musicians picked up their instruments that were leaning against walls and couches.

Mark wanted to play a song he was learning by a musician who was unfamiliar to many of us — John Craigie. The title of the song is “I am California” and written from the “Giving Tree” perspective of our Golden State (tinyurl.com/293zclz6). Those of us who are better listeners than musicians nodded to one another. I tracked down the lyrics when I got home and added the song to my playlist on my phone. Someday I might find myself humming the melody when I drive across a mountain.

“Dig all my gold, soak in my springs/Conquer my mountains if that’s what you need/I am California, can’t you see?/Wherever you roam, you’ll always want me.”