The post you are about to read is a rerun, written and published more than 3 years ago. Of course Randy is no longer walking the earth, but the sentiments of home are still the same. And the rerun of this post is especially appropriate this morning as I board a flight in Florida to go to Manitowoc to spend a few days with my mom. She’s still going strong. Now 92, she complains more often about not feeling well. Because I’m not keen on going up north when it’s really cold, I figured I’d squeeze these few days in now while the weather is still invigorating rather than paralyzing. Enjoy this rerun. And I’ll be back next week for more Manitowoc.
This original post was titled Home and published August 1, 2023.
If I asked you where home is for you, what would you say?
In September, Randy and I are headed to Gatlinburg, Tennessee where, with 2 of his sisters and 1 of his brothers and their spouses, we rented a house. Gatlinburg is sort of centrally located between Missouri, Wisconsin, North Carolina, and Florida where we all live. We decided that when the week in Tennessee is over, because we’re going to be halfway there already and we’re driving, we’d continue on to Wisconsin to visit the rest of our family who still lives there. The most important of whom is my mother, between us, our only surviving parent.
Our home, as you know, is now in Florida. We’ve lived all over the country, and on Guam, over the years. At any given time, and depending on who you’re talking to, home might be where you hang your hat, or (for avid RVers) where you park it. I’ve often felt, after returning from a period away, like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz: there’s no place like home. In fact, I wrote about that in this blog a while back. And technically, when I’m away from the place we currently reside and I talk about going home, I always mean returning to our current place of residence.
But when I’m in the house we currently live in, talking about going home takes on a whole different meaning. Because though the dictionary definition says that home is a noun and describes several kinds of places or locations home could be, the truth is that when I think of home, it evokes an emotional reaction the dictionary doesn’t describe with any success.
One writer, a psychiatrist, says in a blog post, that home is a feeling, not a place. She describes the house we grew up in as occupying sacred ground in our memory. I understand that’s not always the case, depending on so many factors, including whether or not your childhood was good or bad in your mind. But for me, I think that description is aptly true. And for many people, home is the place, as in geographical location, where we spend our childhood.
There are so many great memories for me on North 17th Street in Manitowoc, Wisconsin. My parents sold that house they’d lived in for nearly 50 years about 10 years ago, but if I had to stick a pin in a map, that’d be the place I’d label home.
That feeling of home is a kaleidoscope of sights, smells, sounds, tastes, and feelings that never seem to fade. In my case, light houses and car ferries, Green Bay Packers football, one way streets, stately towers on gorgeous, sprawling brick buildings, fog, fog horns, beer soaked bratwurst, squeaky cheese curds, the smell of dead alewives on the shores of Lake Michigan, giant bottles of Budweiser painted on silo-like buildings, a gigantic cow statue….all of these things conjure home to me.
No matter how many things remind me of home, none of them have the power to conjure up that feeling as when I think of my mom. As we prepare to visit her again in September, I can’t help but wonder whether, when she’s gone (she’s 89 and still going pretty strong so I don’t see that happening any time soon), will I still think of, and long to go, home with as much feeling as I do.
Because you see, home wouldn’t be home without my mom. She’s so wise, filled with so much love that she can’t help but give it away. It’s still important to her to actively mother, grandmother, and great grandmother all the progeny she and dad created. When we drive into Manitowoc’s city limits, yes, we’re technically home, but it’s not until mom opens the door to us, draws me in, and gives me that wonderful motherly hug that I am truly home.
I can’t imagine, because I don’t know any different, that feeling of home without mom. Perhaps the song, Boondocks, by Little Big Town (one of my all-time favorite bands, by the way) says it best…
I feel no shame, I’m proud of where I came from I was born and raised in the boondocks One thing I know, no matter where I go I keep my heart and soul in the boondocks
It’s where I learned about livin’ It’s where I learned about love It’s where I learned about workin’ hard And havin’ a little was just enough It’s where I learned about Jesus And knowin’ where I stand You can take it or leave it This is me, this is who I am
Give me a tin roof, a front porch and a gravel road And that’s home to me, feels like home to me
Manitowoc isn’t exactly the boondocks. We had a shingled roof and a paved street, but these words perfectly evoke the feeling of home for me. A house or a place or a person can’t feel like home unless it was filled with love and laughter, and where you learned the best parts of what makes you, you. Wherever, whoever, that is for you, it’s good to visit as often as you can.
P.S. Many people didn’t have the good childhood I had, and can’t relate to the nostalgia of going home again. I understand that, you can’t change the past. But you can create your future. Find a place now that fills that basic human need and nurture it for yourself. Because feeling home is worth it.
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