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.....I've come to the conclusion that "home" is less a place and more a sensation.
Home is a northern or western accent. The comforting scent of males. Snow falling and way too many people packed into a singlewide. Home is the noise of my mother and her two sisters playing some full-contact cardgame in the kitchen while Granddaddy and Denise and I sit in the livingroom and watch cartoons. Home is kittens pouncing on unwary toes in the middle of the night. Seven conversations at once, and keeping up with all of them. The Norm Effect when someone walks through the door, no matter if they live there all the time or if it's their last night in town...or their first. Home is everybody either gathering in the kitchen to smoke and play cards or being shooed out if they don't have specific business there. Home is lounging sideways in a chair with a book, with Mom across the room doing the same, and occasionally one of us laughing and reading a section aloud. Home is driving through tornados or blizzards or just plain black night to see people you love and miss. Eight people singing the same song, whether it's around Gran's old out-of-tune piano or Caelen's pampered Taylor acoustic. Eight people catching the same cue to an in-joke. Home is fighting my mother and my aunt for the black olives at Thanksgiving and Christmas and every other time we all get together for food. Staying until we feel like leaving because we don't have to go to work any time in the near future.
Home is cooking, whether it's from scratch or not, whether it's for one or ten. Standing in the kitchen with Adam, the Shirtless Chef, staring at his newest skillet creation, not even wanting to ask what's in it because it smells good anyway.
It's the scent of something burning, and wondering if it should be or not...and laughing either way. It's the sound of heavy boots stamping off the snow or mud in the laundry room, then hitting the floor before the person wearing them comes the rest of the way into the house. It's the taste of hot spiced cider in a rounded mug. It's the feeling of fur and wood and crocheted afghans.
It's quoting Edgar Allen Poe and Margaret Weis and John Donne in the same conversation...and following it up with "Charge of the Light Brigade," just because...
Sitting outside on the grass, discussing metaphysics.
Secondhand-smoking cloves in the stairwell, and fingercombing hair in the sun...
Watching the sun set from a hill that slopes so perfectly into a lounging chair.
It's being accepted for who and what you are, no matter what or who that is, because you're family...and accepting your family that way, too. It's being wherever you are, doing whatever you're doing, and knowing that even if they're 600 miles away, your family are still with you, and you with them.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I worked Thanksgiving night, not because I was *forced* to, but because I volunteered. By my logic, it beat putting my name in a hat and getting stuck if I was drawn. So there I was, counting cash at 22:30 or so, when all of a sudden, I get this flash of night and friends and Charleston and close comfort...and Liz's smile--which, for those who've never met Liz, is one of the sweetest, most endearing things in the world. Couldn't help but smile myself at that...and that was a Home moment.
Adam and I called out there today, to get the addresses of the two packmates we'd missed. Left a message on Rogarthe's phone and counted it lost--he never answers his messages. Got more than we bargained for when we called the apartment, though--the fellow whose address we were after was there to give it to us himself. He'd gotten there the night of the 27th, and it strikes me interesting that the two times I've been distracted from what I was doing to watch a pack moment, it's been related to him. Anyway, Caelen's agreed to play for us in February, so there's that bit, come halfway to. Quiet Celtic harps before, Caelen playing the wedding march to start, and...I'll figure out the exit in a day or so.
Listened to a college radio station playing folk music on the way home from Dickson, and heard the live version of "Canned Goods", complete with ten-minute monologue about memories of his grandmother's farm and his family in Iowa...wonderful thing! Made me kindof homesick for altitude and open space, though...
When I got home, Rogarthe called. He gave me his address, and we sat and listened to eachother breathe for a little bit. It was good to hear him, anyway.
....Happy Thanksgiving, all. It's a worthwile life.
Home is a northern or western accent. The comforting scent of males. Snow falling and way too many people packed into a singlewide. Home is the noise of my mother and her two sisters playing some full-contact cardgame in the kitchen while Granddaddy and Denise and I sit in the livingroom and watch cartoons. Home is kittens pouncing on unwary toes in the middle of the night. Seven conversations at once, and keeping up with all of them. The Norm Effect when someone walks through the door, no matter if they live there all the time or if it's their last night in town...or their first. Home is everybody either gathering in the kitchen to smoke and play cards or being shooed out if they don't have specific business there. Home is lounging sideways in a chair with a book, with Mom across the room doing the same, and occasionally one of us laughing and reading a section aloud. Home is driving through tornados or blizzards or just plain black night to see people you love and miss. Eight people singing the same song, whether it's around Gran's old out-of-tune piano or Caelen's pampered Taylor acoustic. Eight people catching the same cue to an in-joke. Home is fighting my mother and my aunt for the black olives at Thanksgiving and Christmas and every other time we all get together for food. Staying until we feel like leaving because we don't have to go to work any time in the near future.
Home is cooking, whether it's from scratch or not, whether it's for one or ten. Standing in the kitchen with Adam, the Shirtless Chef, staring at his newest skillet creation, not even wanting to ask what's in it because it smells good anyway.
It's the scent of something burning, and wondering if it should be or not...and laughing either way. It's the sound of heavy boots stamping off the snow or mud in the laundry room, then hitting the floor before the person wearing them comes the rest of the way into the house. It's the taste of hot spiced cider in a rounded mug. It's the feeling of fur and wood and crocheted afghans.
It's quoting Edgar Allen Poe and Margaret Weis and John Donne in the same conversation...and following it up with "Charge of the Light Brigade," just because...
Sitting outside on the grass, discussing metaphysics.
Secondhand-smoking cloves in the stairwell, and fingercombing hair in the sun...
Watching the sun set from a hill that slopes so perfectly into a lounging chair.
It's being accepted for who and what you are, no matter what or who that is, because you're family...and accepting your family that way, too. It's being wherever you are, doing whatever you're doing, and knowing that even if they're 600 miles away, your family are still with you, and you with them.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I worked Thanksgiving night, not because I was *forced* to, but because I volunteered. By my logic, it beat putting my name in a hat and getting stuck if I was drawn. So there I was, counting cash at 22:30 or so, when all of a sudden, I get this flash of night and friends and Charleston and close comfort...and Liz's smile--which, for those who've never met Liz, is one of the sweetest, most endearing things in the world. Couldn't help but smile myself at that...and that was a Home moment.
Adam and I called out there today, to get the addresses of the two packmates we'd missed. Left a message on Rogarthe's phone and counted it lost--he never answers his messages. Got more than we bargained for when we called the apartment, though--the fellow whose address we were after was there to give it to us himself. He'd gotten there the night of the 27th, and it strikes me interesting that the two times I've been distracted from what I was doing to watch a pack moment, it's been related to him. Anyway, Caelen's agreed to play for us in February, so there's that bit, come halfway to. Quiet Celtic harps before, Caelen playing the wedding march to start, and...I'll figure out the exit in a day or so.
Listened to a college radio station playing folk music on the way home from Dickson, and heard the live version of "Canned Goods", complete with ten-minute monologue about memories of his grandmother's farm and his family in Iowa...wonderful thing! Made me kindof homesick for altitude and open space, though...
When I got home, Rogarthe called. He gave me his address, and we sat and listened to eachother breathe for a little bit. It was good to hear him, anyway.
....Happy Thanksgiving, all. It's a worthwile life.
