And now for something different
This post is going to be a little bit different than what I usually write. Consider yourself disclaimered...disclaimed?... at any rate I warned you.
In my writing class we recently had to do a definition essay. I actually struggled with it quite a bit unlike the first few essays we wrote that I pretty instantly knew my topics and practically had them written before we even left class. So far I've written essays about what it was like to go from being a full time worker bee to suddenly be a stay at home mom, I've written about why books kick so much ass over e-readers... and I've gotten A's on both these papers and an appalling amount of compliments (not really, that's just me trying to show off, but I did get the A's), and then this definition essay assignment reared it's head. And I literally drew a blank. I had nothing. Define what exactly? Politics? Freedom? Awesomeness? My head was spinning and not in the good "this carousel was a great idea" kind of way. And then, upon taking the advice of my instructor, I sat down and without putting much thought into it, just wrote. And who-freaking-knew that my college professor would actually be right about something? Well she was. What I ended up producing after a glass (or 2) of wine and about 3 hours worth of free-writing and reviewing and editing was this charming little 4 page essay about what Home meant to me. It has not been graded yet, but I wanted to share it anyway. Because it's not really about the grade on this one, there's something about this particular essay that tugs on my heartstrings every time I go back and read it again. Probably because it's got a lot of personal facts mixed in with the fluff and made up for dramatic flair bits. There's more truth than fantasy to this particular essay (although there wasn't much fantasy in the Book Vs. E-reader essay either to be honest, that shit was all 100% fact - and by 100% fact I mean 100% my opinion. The one where I describe life as a stay at home mom... lets just say some details were fudged; there might be a class under the impression my house is actually clean and that I do things like vacuum on a daily basis and fold and put away laundry. What a cute idea.)
Despite the personal real-life type parts here, this essay does still contain a good amount of fiction, so don't take every single word here to heart, especially in the first two examples, the negative aspects of our houses were just cooked up to create a contrast, yes I actually lived in all these places but no the negative depictions of them are not solid stone fact. There, I think I've covered everything. So here it is, I just wanted to share this.
In my writing class we recently had to do a definition essay. I actually struggled with it quite a bit unlike the first few essays we wrote that I pretty instantly knew my topics and practically had them written before we even left class. So far I've written essays about what it was like to go from being a full time worker bee to suddenly be a stay at home mom, I've written about why books kick so much ass over e-readers... and I've gotten A's on both these papers and an appalling amount of compliments (not really, that's just me trying to show off, but I did get the A's), and then this definition essay assignment reared it's head. And I literally drew a blank. I had nothing. Define what exactly? Politics? Freedom? Awesomeness? My head was spinning and not in the good "this carousel was a great idea" kind of way. And then, upon taking the advice of my instructor, I sat down and without putting much thought into it, just wrote. And who-freaking-knew that my college professor would actually be right about something? Well she was. What I ended up producing after a glass (or 2) of wine and about 3 hours worth of free-writing and reviewing and editing was this charming little 4 page essay about what Home meant to me. It has not been graded yet, but I wanted to share it anyway. Because it's not really about the grade on this one, there's something about this particular essay that tugs on my heartstrings every time I go back and read it again. Probably because it's got a lot of personal facts mixed in with the fluff and made up for dramatic flair bits. There's more truth than fantasy to this particular essay (although there wasn't much fantasy in the Book Vs. E-reader essay either to be honest, that shit was all 100% fact - and by 100% fact I mean 100% my opinion. The one where I describe life as a stay at home mom... lets just say some details were fudged; there might be a class under the impression my house is actually clean and that I do things like vacuum on a daily basis and fold and put away laundry. What a cute idea.)
Despite the personal real-life type parts here, this essay does still contain a good amount of fiction, so don't take every single word here to heart, especially in the first two examples, the negative aspects of our houses were just cooked up to create a contrast, yes I actually lived in all these places but no the negative depictions of them are not solid stone fact. There, I think I've covered everything. So here it is, I just wanted to share this.
Going Home
Throughout
my life, thanks to my Air Force dad and the nomadic instincts that were
tattooed into my soul as a result of moving so often, I’ve lived in many, many
different houses all over the world. I did not call every single one of them my
home, even though I lived in them. How many times have you called somewhere
home? What makes you feel like you’re truly at home? For me, it’s that
unmistakable feeling of comfort and contentment that wraps me up in the
security blanket of knowledge that no matter what may come, I am where I
belong. As my life progresses, I’ve discovered home is a certain feeling I get,
and sometimes that has nothing to do with the dwelling I’m living in.
I’ve experienced a feeling of being at home in places that weren’t even mine. Being home had more to do with the way I felt than where we lived. The beach my family and I went to in Hawaii is one of the earliest examples I can think of. We certainly were never able to feel at home in our house while we lived there. Even as a child I could feel the negativity consuming that house. It swarmed around in the air like a bunch of angry bees looking for any reason to sting someone getting too close their hive. There was frustration and there was uncertainty lurking around each corner of those walls. There were problems at our house that made it impossible to feel at home inside that cold unwelcoming duplex. The neighbors could frequently be heard through our adjoined wall bickering with each other. Their aggravations seemed to create hostility within our own walls and suddenly we would all be arguing with each other too. Dinners at our table were often silent and filled with the unspoken but mutual dissatisfaction of people that were consumed with thoughts about how rough work had been that day or how much we didn’t want to go to school. It wasn’t that our family wasn’t happy together, it’s that we weren’t happy when we were inside that house for some reason. We would run away from all that darkness to a place that reminded us what happiness felt like. None of us were in a hurry to get back to our house and face the stress and problems of daily life that awaited our return so each night when it was time to go, we lingered as long as possible.
The beach was our sanctuary, our guardian, our safe keeper. My family and I went to Bellows Beach almost every day. My brother and I knew every inch of that beach. Still, every time our toes sank into that warm soft sand, it was just as exciting as the very first time we went. It’d be accurate to say we probably spent more time there then we did at our house. There was never anything stressful or sad at Bellows. Fights paused as waves lapped the sand. Anger evaporated with the salty breeze. Stress dissolved into the warm air kissed with the scent of the palm trees and distant sugar cane fields. New adventures began and happiness took over. When we laid out our towels and unfolded our chairs on that beach, staking our claim to our desired spot by piercing the sand with our giant primary colored umbrella, it was our family at its absolute best. It’s where we were happy and at peace: peace with each other and peace with the world around us. No matter how hard things had seemed to be at our house, we could go up the road to our beach, and the warm sun would melt away the negativity and we would remember again what it was like to feel at home with each other.
As is custom in the military we eventually left our warm sandy haven and moved on to new places. Military housing can sometimes leave something to be desired, and the apartment building we were assigned to in Germany was no exception. It was generic and standard and had the exact same set up as every military housing neighborhood we had ever lived in. Everything was painted in various shades of tan, the exact same type of basic playgrounds and faded wooden picnic tables dotting the courtyards between each building. The dark creepy stairwells you had to climb to reach your apartment used to terrify me and I would race through them as quickly as possible, fearing that some creature in the corner shadows might grab me if I lingered too long. It was a nightmare for me if my parents asked me to go down to the laundry room or our storage unit in the basement. When we first moved in I was pretty convinced there were ax-murderers down there just waiting for me to come skipping into their trap. But this ugly old building that creeped me out so badly when we first moved in quickly became a home like me and my brother had never experienced before and never would again. Instead of being made from bricks and wood and doors and windows, it was created through the families that lived inside them.
During the summers, it was common practice if one dad went out front and fired up their grill, soon all the other dads in the building would come outside with coolers of beer and various meats, potatoes, and veggies and join him with their own grills. The tangy smell of barbeque filled the air and floated in through the windows, drawing all of the kids out to the playground. As we ran and played it melting away the slides and swings dull appearance into a shiny wonderland. The moms would all float out to the picnic tables, it would seem mostly to heckle the dads on their grilling, but everyone was smiling. Laughter filled the atmosphere and was infectious even to passersby from other buildings that might just be out for a walk. Soon what began as one family’s dinner would become a giant meal for all of us that we would eat together outside or sitting on the steps of the stairwell inside the building, or even retreat into someone’s apartment and squeeze in next to each other wherever we could. On the weekends we would have these epic kickball games in the courtyard. While june-bugs blindly dove at us getting stuck in all the girls’ hair causing shrieks, the faint smell of the adults’ beer (that we kids always tried to steal sips of) and dozens of citronella candles filled the air around us. We would play all night long sometimes, running and laughing under the stars and the moon and not thinking twice about the disruptions we were likely causing other people. Even when we were not together, the happiness of the families in our building radiated through the walls and floors. The light of our bond chased away those shadows in the halls that used to give me the chills. The phantom ax-murderers in the basement were no match for the delighted giggles and stampeding parade of 7 kids playing hide and seek in basement corridor. Our home was not contained in the walls of our generic military apartment, but in all of the families and friends that lived in that building with us.
I have also had the occasional house that I did call my home. Our house in Texas was the first place we ever bought. After my dad retired from the military he thought it was time to plant our roots somewhere, and with his skeptical family in tow, he purchased us our very first house. It was a strange feeling to wrap my head around at first, a feeling of permanence; the first time I had ever really felt such a thing. I expected my entire body and mind to reject the idea. I was not ready to give up our life of wandering just yet, I told myself I would never like this house, never like this town – it would never be my home. Mostly I was just scared. There was a real chance the friends I made here would be around for a long time. They wouldn’t walk in and out of my life like everyone I had known before. It was possible that if I got close to someone, I would not have to eventually say goodbye as I had grown accustomed to doing. This permanent residence meant that I could decorate my walls and begin to plan long term goals. I hoped my dad had chosen a good enough house to not fall to pieces under all that pressure.
In the haphazard whirlwind of a teenage girl becoming a young woman my house did in fact stand bold and strong. The walls of that house were my safe haven; they saw their share of ups and downs from me and my family and never crumbled. They vibrated from the slammed doors and frustrations of my raging teenage emotions. They echoed with the joy of me bouncing around the house on more fruitful days. They hummed with the sounds of laughter during our get-togethers and family dinners. They provided a sanctuary around me when I just needed somewhere to be alone and collect my thoughts. Even when the walls of that house were permanently scarred with the deep cuts of my parents’ divorce, it never felt like anything less than my home. The place I could always go to, always be free to be me in, and always be loved in. Every time I walked through that door there was a familiarity, the same kind you got with someone that knew all of your secrets, good and bad, and loved you anyway. For one of the first times in my life I found it was possible to feel at home in my house.
I have my own house now. My own house that I raise my own children in, and while it was a little bit of a stranger at first, I learn a little bit more every day how to make it into a home. As I walked through the door not too long ago, after being gone for a couple days, my weary mind was immediately comforted by the smell of our home. It’s not a perfume or manufactured smell that can be bought on a shelf somewhere, it’s a unique smell that only I can recognize. It comes from everywhere in the house and I only catch it for just a moment when I step through the door. That scent seeps deep into my senses and whispers throughout my bones that I can really relax now. I always take a big breath in now when I walk through the door and catch that little whisper, and when I exhale and look around, I can feel it: I am home.
I’ve experienced a feeling of being at home in places that weren’t even mine. Being home had more to do with the way I felt than where we lived. The beach my family and I went to in Hawaii is one of the earliest examples I can think of. We certainly were never able to feel at home in our house while we lived there. Even as a child I could feel the negativity consuming that house. It swarmed around in the air like a bunch of angry bees looking for any reason to sting someone getting too close their hive. There was frustration and there was uncertainty lurking around each corner of those walls. There were problems at our house that made it impossible to feel at home inside that cold unwelcoming duplex. The neighbors could frequently be heard through our adjoined wall bickering with each other. Their aggravations seemed to create hostility within our own walls and suddenly we would all be arguing with each other too. Dinners at our table were often silent and filled with the unspoken but mutual dissatisfaction of people that were consumed with thoughts about how rough work had been that day or how much we didn’t want to go to school. It wasn’t that our family wasn’t happy together, it’s that we weren’t happy when we were inside that house for some reason. We would run away from all that darkness to a place that reminded us what happiness felt like. None of us were in a hurry to get back to our house and face the stress and problems of daily life that awaited our return so each night when it was time to go, we lingered as long as possible.
The beach was our sanctuary, our guardian, our safe keeper. My family and I went to Bellows Beach almost every day. My brother and I knew every inch of that beach. Still, every time our toes sank into that warm soft sand, it was just as exciting as the very first time we went. It’d be accurate to say we probably spent more time there then we did at our house. There was never anything stressful or sad at Bellows. Fights paused as waves lapped the sand. Anger evaporated with the salty breeze. Stress dissolved into the warm air kissed with the scent of the palm trees and distant sugar cane fields. New adventures began and happiness took over. When we laid out our towels and unfolded our chairs on that beach, staking our claim to our desired spot by piercing the sand with our giant primary colored umbrella, it was our family at its absolute best. It’s where we were happy and at peace: peace with each other and peace with the world around us. No matter how hard things had seemed to be at our house, we could go up the road to our beach, and the warm sun would melt away the negativity and we would remember again what it was like to feel at home with each other.
As is custom in the military we eventually left our warm sandy haven and moved on to new places. Military housing can sometimes leave something to be desired, and the apartment building we were assigned to in Germany was no exception. It was generic and standard and had the exact same set up as every military housing neighborhood we had ever lived in. Everything was painted in various shades of tan, the exact same type of basic playgrounds and faded wooden picnic tables dotting the courtyards between each building. The dark creepy stairwells you had to climb to reach your apartment used to terrify me and I would race through them as quickly as possible, fearing that some creature in the corner shadows might grab me if I lingered too long. It was a nightmare for me if my parents asked me to go down to the laundry room or our storage unit in the basement. When we first moved in I was pretty convinced there were ax-murderers down there just waiting for me to come skipping into their trap. But this ugly old building that creeped me out so badly when we first moved in quickly became a home like me and my brother had never experienced before and never would again. Instead of being made from bricks and wood and doors and windows, it was created through the families that lived inside them.
During the summers, it was common practice if one dad went out front and fired up their grill, soon all the other dads in the building would come outside with coolers of beer and various meats, potatoes, and veggies and join him with their own grills. The tangy smell of barbeque filled the air and floated in through the windows, drawing all of the kids out to the playground. As we ran and played it melting away the slides and swings dull appearance into a shiny wonderland. The moms would all float out to the picnic tables, it would seem mostly to heckle the dads on their grilling, but everyone was smiling. Laughter filled the atmosphere and was infectious even to passersby from other buildings that might just be out for a walk. Soon what began as one family’s dinner would become a giant meal for all of us that we would eat together outside or sitting on the steps of the stairwell inside the building, or even retreat into someone’s apartment and squeeze in next to each other wherever we could. On the weekends we would have these epic kickball games in the courtyard. While june-bugs blindly dove at us getting stuck in all the girls’ hair causing shrieks, the faint smell of the adults’ beer (that we kids always tried to steal sips of) and dozens of citronella candles filled the air around us. We would play all night long sometimes, running and laughing under the stars and the moon and not thinking twice about the disruptions we were likely causing other people. Even when we were not together, the happiness of the families in our building radiated through the walls and floors. The light of our bond chased away those shadows in the halls that used to give me the chills. The phantom ax-murderers in the basement were no match for the delighted giggles and stampeding parade of 7 kids playing hide and seek in basement corridor. Our home was not contained in the walls of our generic military apartment, but in all of the families and friends that lived in that building with us.
I have also had the occasional house that I did call my home. Our house in Texas was the first place we ever bought. After my dad retired from the military he thought it was time to plant our roots somewhere, and with his skeptical family in tow, he purchased us our very first house. It was a strange feeling to wrap my head around at first, a feeling of permanence; the first time I had ever really felt such a thing. I expected my entire body and mind to reject the idea. I was not ready to give up our life of wandering just yet, I told myself I would never like this house, never like this town – it would never be my home. Mostly I was just scared. There was a real chance the friends I made here would be around for a long time. They wouldn’t walk in and out of my life like everyone I had known before. It was possible that if I got close to someone, I would not have to eventually say goodbye as I had grown accustomed to doing. This permanent residence meant that I could decorate my walls and begin to plan long term goals. I hoped my dad had chosen a good enough house to not fall to pieces under all that pressure.
In the haphazard whirlwind of a teenage girl becoming a young woman my house did in fact stand bold and strong. The walls of that house were my safe haven; they saw their share of ups and downs from me and my family and never crumbled. They vibrated from the slammed doors and frustrations of my raging teenage emotions. They echoed with the joy of me bouncing around the house on more fruitful days. They hummed with the sounds of laughter during our get-togethers and family dinners. They provided a sanctuary around me when I just needed somewhere to be alone and collect my thoughts. Even when the walls of that house were permanently scarred with the deep cuts of my parents’ divorce, it never felt like anything less than my home. The place I could always go to, always be free to be me in, and always be loved in. Every time I walked through that door there was a familiarity, the same kind you got with someone that knew all of your secrets, good and bad, and loved you anyway. For one of the first times in my life I found it was possible to feel at home in my house.
I have my own house now. My own house that I raise my own children in, and while it was a little bit of a stranger at first, I learn a little bit more every day how to make it into a home. As I walked through the door not too long ago, after being gone for a couple days, my weary mind was immediately comforted by the smell of our home. It’s not a perfume or manufactured smell that can be bought on a shelf somewhere, it’s a unique smell that only I can recognize. It comes from everywhere in the house and I only catch it for just a moment when I step through the door. That scent seeps deep into my senses and whispers throughout my bones that I can really relax now. I always take a big breath in now when I walk through the door and catch that little whisper, and when I exhale and look around, I can feel it: I am home.