Home is Where the Heart is

Home is where the heart is. Cliched, but true.

Today, NaBloPoMo asked, "When was the first time that you realized that your home was not like other people's homes?"

Maybe I'm in the minority, or simply misunderstand the question, but I always knew my home was different. Moving defined my family, so structures were of little consequence. Home was where we slept, where we kept our clothes. In no way did four walls define our family.

Even as a young child, people wondered why our family moved so much. A life full of constant prying questions from people who just didn't understand.

I remember the story when my dad called his father yet again to tell him about another move. His dad simply said, "Boy, you need to learn how to hold down a job." My dad spent 30 years with GE, had an amazing career, but his path wasn't clear to a lot of people.

Still, if home is truly where the heart is, then aren't all our homes the same. Home is humor, good meals, tears, and coming together. It's balancing the hard times with the good times. When the pendulum swings to the bad, our youth is lost and our hearts cling to something else. What is home in that case? I don't know. I am blessed not to know, and my heart goes out to people who do.

Home is the memories we conjure up in times of happiness, sadness, and need. I want my kids' memories full of family moments, times we laughed and loved, not the look of their bedroom or particular furnishings.

I want them to embrace differences. How boring would the world be if all our homes, all our memories, were the same?

Early on, don't we all know our homes are different? Unique? Special?

*****

Mom wrote a post earlier this year about home: House that Grew Me. Take a moment to read it. As she so eloquently said, "it’s not about a home at the end of the day; it’s about the people we love that also grew up in the home or the many people who visited . . . A structure is temporal; building and keeping relationships are forever."

ROW 80 Check In: Coconut Custard and French Silk, Why Choose?

"Mom, I want something sweet." I said, sitting at the kitchen bar.

"What do you want? How about a pie?" she asked. Now you know one of the reasons, and there are many, I love my mom so much.

She mentioned several. I couldn't decide. She made two, so I ended up with a piece of homemade French Silk and Coconut custard within 45 minutes. I kid you not. It's summer, I wasn't choosing between these two flavors. Ah, the joys of being at Mama's.

Stuffed and happy, it suddenly dawned on me it was Sunday. ROW 80 check in time. The beauty of summer is the melting of days into each other until there's no distinction.

But I'm so excited about my progress, I must share. Although I didn't add much to my word count, Mom and I fleshed out some characters and planned plot. We even edited to where we are. I will announce the new word count on Wednesday. I easily worked an hour a day on the manuscript, so I'll keep the time goal for the coming week. And I edited my 5 pages per day.

I also met my goals of visiting 15 ROW 80 blogs and 10 others. I will continue this goal this week. I really enjoy reading all the wonderful posts, so it's not a chore (just time consuming).

I blogged every day but one. On Friday, I was traveling and just couldn't. I plan to post every day this week.

My biggest disappointment: I didn't finish reading my book! I want to, but I've lost momentum with it. Not sure what that says about the book yet. I blame my crazy schedule, for now. I will have this book plus one more read by Wednesday and two reviews done and posted by Friday. Crazy schedule be damned!

In life, it's all about choices. Today, I chose both the coconut and chocolate pies. Sometimes choosing is not all it's cracked up to be. If only I could work on my WIP and read at the same time.

How did your choices pan out this week?

House that Grew Me

Mom's back with a post about going home again. Enjoy!

*****

They say you can never go home. I agree.

Two months ago, we drove by and saw the old home place was for sale. We knew it was in rough shape. But the draw of “home” had us stop to look around. One of the neighbors saw us snooping, and politely came out to inform us the last owners had been evicted after a cocaine raid. We winced; then we called the realtor.

Here’s your sign! If the dang thing is torn halfway off the post, you might want to consider your redneck status or lack thereof. I don’t know what category we fall into, but we actually got nostalgic thinking about going through the house. Well, technically it’s my husband’s; I adopted it when my parent’s home burned down in 2001.

Two days later we met the real estate agent at the property. The screen door almost fell off when she opened it. To our dismay there were six bolts and locks running down the doorframe. Luckily she only had to open the top one. She said the previous owner couldn’t afford a security system. We still didn’t bite, only anticipation was mounting. It had been 16 years since we’d stepped over the threshold.

While waiting, I thought I heard children playing cowboys and Indians and dogs running after them, barking their fool heads off. I closed my eyes, and I heard the old rooster crowing, wanting to get in on the action. The creaking of rockers and the scratchy rub of the metal chain on the porch swing sounded as real as real can get.  

The door finally opened with a thud, ending my daydreaming. The living room was dark, dank and smelled like urine and distilled liquor. As my eyes adjusted to the faint light, I stood dumbstruck. The plaster had been torn off in wide, gaping sheets; the overhead light fixtures were missing, wires dangled, splayed in several directions. This was not a pretty sight. My mother-in-law, Miss Daisy Mae, would have had one hell of a hissy fit over the mess before me.

I touched my husband’s shoulder. I couldn’t imagine the pain of seeing my home destroyed. This was the home he had been born in, learned to walk through and grew up within its meager space. I could see him looking around; his eyes stopping every once and awhile in one spot. One was the area where the kitchen table used to be. I remember seeing him spread out his homework and watch Ed Sullivan or Maverick with his folks.  

We didn’t waste a lot of time looking around. The home had died. All the love poured into it had stopped when the older members died or went into the nursing home. Sadness filled our ride home. Words sat between us, crying.

The whole affair made me stop and reflect. We really can’t go home. But then again, it’s not about a home at the end of the day; it’s about the people we love that also grew up in the home or the many people who visited – friends, extended family, the pastor and the doctor who delivered several of the children in the front bedroom. A structure is temporal; building and keeping relationships are forever.

*****

When I read Mom's piece, I was sad remembering the place I visited my grandparents as a young kid. A family grew me. I barely remember any details of structures. I've never been in the same house for more than four years (and that record I just set in Colorado) my whole life. And I'm happy to say, since a family grew me, I can go home anytime, and I do!

Can you go home again?