Search for Home - Part 1

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 I recently shared that I am writing two books and that the experience is like reading two books at the same time. One book is fiction, and the other is a “how-to” work, otherwise known as a non-fiction. This blog is part of my work as I think aloud about the non-fiction book, How to Stay Connected in a Disconnected World. I am currently in the research, thinking, and note-making stage of that endeavor. The manuscript will most likely take at least eighteen months until I  start thinking of it as a market-ready book. I am creating the reading list, which is challenging because I have not fully decided on a point of view. I trust my instincts to lead me where I need to go. This “Search for Home” blog series is part of the process.

The other book, entitled Just Friends, was started several years ago and will be finished in the fall. I have no idea what that means in terms of the timing of delivery to you, my readers. The book is a playful, somewhat suspenseful, late-in-life love story about two academics, one of whom is seeking a position as president of a small, prestigious liberal arts college.

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Home means different things to different people. The adage, “Home is where the Heart is”  is at once a sweet and insensitive sentiment. Nowadays, the “Heart” part is a moving target at best, and often ephemeral. I am blessed to have a partner with whom I’ve built a life for the last forty-one years. We have children, an extended family, friends that have become family, and all the rest of what goes into a long life together. But my husband and I are also individuals, growing in different directions and at different speeds. During the last decade, our ideas of “home” started to differ enough that we chose to live separately sometimes. Not for too long. Not too often. But enough that we would miss the intersection of the best parts of our decades-long, shared life and want to reunite.

I know I say this often in my writing, but I never want this to be misunderstood—these choices are for the privileged, and occur either from birthright, luck, intentional choices, strategy, or a combination of the above. Privileged or not, the ache of missing home is real.

My first memories of home are of little me surrounded by many adults: grandparents, aunts, uncles, my parents, and my parents’ friends. These adults were hardworking, busy, resourceful, and serious about life. Fun was a luxury my people did not experience in large doses, except for my young aunt and her friends, who were like my big sisters. But all the adults in my life wanted me to have fun—to enjoy myself.  I was pampered and spoiled with attention. And hope. I sensed their desire for the next generation to have it better, much better than they did. Their emphasis on my education was of paramount importance. My grandparents signed me up for a book club, my mother got me a library card, and my grandfather read to me. I don’t remember what we read, but I loved being tucked under his arm, listening to the cadence of his otherwise bellowing voice as he read to me. I would often laugh at the voices of the characters he’d make up. The Bible was a popular choice of my grandmother, and I had lots of little kid Bibles from which I learned some of my first words.

Another early memory of home for me was of food. Food was all about home cooking. We ate at home for every meal; my lunches were packed for school and were very basic. Bologna and cheese sandwich with mustard (yuck) and a piece of fruit. Baked goods were only for birthdays: cupcakes for school, cake for extended family. I learned to barter. I don’t remember who liked my sandwiches, but I was always excited to trade for a plain, peanut butter sandwich. No jelly. I thought it tasted yucky with jelly. Sunday dinners at my mom’s parents were the best. The food was abundant, albeit exotic (they were of Italian descent). Chicken cacciatore, veal saltimbocca, lentil soup, osso bucco, chicken liver wrapped in bacon, homemade pizza, to name just a few of their many dishes. It always felt like a feast.

Setting the table and cleanup were each memorable experiences. Making sure certain members didn’t get a chipped dish or missed-matched silverware. Squabbling over who cleared, who washed, and who dried. I hated drying. My young auntie was adept at ducking us out at just the right time. She made a brief appearance, did a little work, and then skedaddled next door to her best friend’s house for fun stuff, like polishing nails, chewing gum, and paging through gossip magazines. I think about those times and how they influenced my life’s choices. No men were involved except my grandfather, who did some of the cooking and  grew some of the food. The mundane, unappreciated work was left to the women.

My grandmother had a wringer washer. No dryer. And she ironed the linens. Ugh. I cannot imagine ironing tablecloths and napkins, let alone, for the twenty people who sat around that very long series of tables every Sunday. Nor could I imagine shopping and cooking for that many mouths each week. Some of the food was grown in my grandfather’s garden, as were the flowers. But the joy that was created around that table (not to mention the drama!) is the most memorable: someone announcing a new job, a promotion, an engagement, or a pregnancy. I have a lasting personal memory of my family’s reaction when I graduated from college. My grandparents were so proud of me. I was the first in their family (none of their four daughters went to college) and my grandfather would introduce me as, “Denise-our-college-graduate.”

When someone in the family became ill, helping hands pitched in. When someone had a coming-of-age event, everyone cleaned, decorated, cooked and partied together. When someone was sad, a trip to the dairy farm for ice cream would cheer them up, even if just for an hour.

Nature was a big part of my childhood. My grandfathers both gardened extensively. One grew fruit and vegetables, the other flowers. My mother was an avid gardener, and my brother and I were often commissioned to the loathsome tasks of weeding or picking veggies. Yet, those experiences instilled in us our love of gardening. My brother still grows a lot of his food, and I can never have too many flower gardens.

Nature also meant running through fields, hiking the hills in our community, skinny dipping in ponds and lakes during the summer, ice-skating in the winter, riding horses, feeding livestock, fetching fresh eggs from the neighbor’s coup, or helping to wrangle a horse on the loose back to a neighbor’s barn. We also had our own beloved animals: dogs, cats, chicks, bunnies, frogs, and fish. I learned to bottle feed bunnies from the local veterinarian when my brother found a disturbed nest in our front yard. Releasing them into the wild was a challenge for both of us. We’d go back each day with bottles until they stopped showing up. We hoped for the best they wouldn’t become snacks for predators.

I recently read that there are three essential ingredients for a friendship: proximity, timing, and energy. It made me think that these ingredients are essential in almost all relationships. Our lives often unfold before we have time to think about much. When I created my family of choice, I thought about creating a less stressful financial life for my children than I had. That meant an education that would open wide the doors of opportunity. I didn’t think much about the developing global economy and how that would separate families. I didn’t think about home ownership as a weight requiring resources which might  limit other options.

As I think about the trajectory I was put on by my family of origin, coupled with the opportunities I was able to create on my own, and where it all landed me—suffice it to say, I am exhausted. How to stay connected when life changes exponentially for better or for worse is not something most people think about. I didn’t think about natural disasters and their impact. Or, illness, or death of loved ones, or losses that knock the wind out of your proverbial sails. The global disruptions experienced today did not enter into the collective psyche of our younger selves.  

I am writing this blog from Los Gatos, California, an affluent city which is now home to big tech and exorbitant housing costs. It used to be a sleepy, “white picket fence”  community. I am here sporadically throughout the next month, visiting our kids in San Francisco, Stephen’s mom, sister and her family in Los Angeles, and other friends scattered throughout the region. How do we stay connected in a disconnected world and not lose a sense of ourselves? I am working on trying to figure it all out.

I would love to hear your take on the topic “The Search for Home.” I will eventually be offering an electronic survey for purposes of my research, but anecdotal information is valuable, too.

Thanks for taking the time to read and check in.

With Gratitude.