I’ve been ‘home’ for just over three weeks, now. Twenty-four days, as the title would suggest. It’s interesting to say I’m ‘home’ at all, since, in the course of my 26 years, I’ve called many places ‘home’: here in Tennessee, my grandparents’ house in Cleveland, the shoebox of a dorm room I had for my first two years of university and then the blessed off-campus apartment I shared with a friend, the town-house in Charlotte, and lastly my ‘three up, three down’ on Skegoneill Dr. with its postage stamp back garden, crap-shoot oven and two loud, loving housemates. I guess that sappy cliché is actually true; ‘Home is where the heart is.’
But that begs the question, ‘Where is your heart?’ Hmmm…good one. I guess it goes without saying (even though I’m gonna say it anyway) that if all of these places can be ‘home’ then ‘home’ isn’t really about the physical building. Don’t get me wrong, if my house at 512 W. Maple St. caught fire, I’d be woefully upset, but I think in the end it would have less to do with the loss of the brick and mortar and more to do with the loss of 33 years’ worth of back-breaking laborious blood, sweat and tears that has gone into making this house what it is. And when my grandparents decided to sell the house they’d lived in for 40-plus years, the whole family was upset, but again, it had less to do with the white clapboard building than it had to do with the memories that went with it. My parents had their wedding reception there in 1974—complete with ochre-colored shag carpet—, Grammie and Pop’s 50th Anniversary party was held in the back garden, and at least 40 years’ worth of Christmas celebrations have taken place in the living room. I learned a lot while living in that town-house in Charlotte, and even more from Skegoneill Dr. (not the least of which was ‘don’t let the gas run out in the winter.’)
But ‘home,’ too, is the town where the house is located. I was raised in Johnson City, learned about family in Cleveland, became an adult in Boone, lost myself in Charlotte, found myself in Johnson City again, and discovered the world in Belfast. Having many different homes opens your eyes to the next one you have, especially if that home is one you think you’ve already seen. Has there always been a homeless man living on that loading dock 100 yards from my back door? Has there always been a homeless community living under that over-pass? Have I always been this ignorant about world affairs? Has American society always been this egocentric? When did I become an un-affiliated ‘Independent’? Why do I own so much ‘pish’?
A year ago, when I was writing my first ‘Twenty-Four Day In…’ entry, I found myself enamored with my physical location. The house itself, the vegetation in the gardens, the way the power poles were strung, the layout of the neighborhood. Slowly my eyes opened to things beyond the physical there, to the personal. I’ve seen my neighborhood in Tennessee before; physically it hasn’t changed at all. Okay, a few dead trees are gone and some landscaping has changed, but that’s it. The buildings are the same with the same families living in them. It’s nice to have that consistency, but I have less of an excuse this time around; I’ve already seen and gotten used to the physical. It’s time to move on to the personal. Have I met that man who lives on the loading dock yet? Nope. Is it my intention to do so? Sure, but I also know where the Road of Good Intentions leads and I’m afraid I might be on it. The trick is to drive off the well-paved, looked-after Road of Good Intentions with its well-landscaped median and get onto the gravel-strewn, pot-holed Road of Good Action which will knock your shocks out and claim your oil pan if you’re not careful. The Road of Good Action isn’t one to be barreled down at a break-neck speed just so you can get down it quickly. It takes time to travel. You have to stop and deal with messy things like relationships and self-discovery and change and flat tires. And your engine might stall out and your radiator might die and you might end up walking instead of driving, or you could put your car in the shop for a while to get it fixed. But while you’re waiting for your mode of transportation to become usable again, the strangest things can happen. And you might just find a new home.
