A Distributed Notion of "Home"

Over the past several weeks, I’ve been feeling bothered and sad by the thought of dismantling the home where my sister and three brothers and I grew up. The home where prom evenings and hunting expeditions were launched, where we grumbled over chores on Saturday mornings and marveled at surprises on Christmas mornings. The house where seven people shared one bathroom and three bedrooms, and where Dad’s one glass of beer at dinnertime suffered a round of children’s sips before he could enjoy it.

My father and mother were able to save some modest certificates of deposit when the five of us were finally out of the house. Each time one of the certificates matured, my father would cash it and “make a distribution,” his term for sharing the funds equally among his children and their families. Over the years, we had quite a few “distributions” of between $500 and $5,000. They were always welcome, and often trickled down to our own children. Now, we are in the process of receiving our final distribution of the assets of our parents’ life; our family home and its contents.

We met recently to talk over what treasures we each wanted from the house. My sister, Nina, claimed a special mirror for her daughter; and the coffee table and end tables will move to Connecticut with Gabe. Andy recalled that the coffee table once had a fitted piece of glass on top. He remembered it by the sound of its shattering. Mike reclaimed the paintings his young bride made for Mom. Pasta bowls will be dispersed among five families to spread the bounty of heaping memories as far as possible. An ancient box camera, walking sticks, the espresso pot we filled after dinner for every holiday, and Mom’s bundt pan will all have new homes. A small cabinet, two upholstered chairs, a cedar chest and Dad’s desk will migrate near and far.

As the oldest child, I have perhaps the longest memory of the austere upright desk standing in our parents’ bedroom. The key was placed far out of our reach. We could see the sets of dark books through glass doors, and it was a momentous day when I finally received permission to open those doors and select a book to read. Only recently have we examined this sanctuary of documents, photos, and war memorabilia from top to bottom. I emptied the desk myself, and slowly realized that there were no deep secrets preserved there, no cryptic map to buried treasure. There were the crumbling immigration documents of two families, decades-old pairs of glasses, photographs from “the old country” and from distant branches of the family tree. But there were also paper clips, a collection of pins from political campaigns, some pennies, and autograph books from my mother’s junior high school graduation class and my father’s high school graduating class. Are you finally finished growing up when you empty ALL the drawers under lock and key and find out that there may not have been much mystery after all in your father’s life or your mother’s life? Even though I’ve touched the wooden bottom of the drawers with my own hands, I still believe that they each had locked places in their hearts that we’ll never know.

After this weekend, our childhood home will be in the hands of a realtor. This is less disturbing than I had anticipated. I’ve begun to focus on the continuity in our process of distribution; after all, I’ve been making sauce in my mother’s sauce pot for years. My sister has been wearing Mom’s marcasite pendant, and the smaller espresso pot migrated to my brother’s kitchen long ago. Our family home has evolved and is dispersed across five or six states and perhaps ten or twelve homes. A tea cup here, a shovel there, a bracelet, a walking stick, a special shark’s tooth, troves of photographs in many desk drawers: home has come closer and more deeply into our lives through this process of distribution. And we are more firmly knit together as a family by these distributed mementos of home.

For your writing:
How do you define “Home”? Is it a place or a set of belongings? Is it the shared habits and traditions of your family? What does “home” feel like? When you are “Homesick,” what are you missing?

Quotation for Percolation:
The most important work you and I will every do will be within the walls of our own homes. Harold B. Lee (1899 - 1973)