A Homecoming

A fullness of spirit and a place of our choosing

Today’s essay is part of a series on home that includes Joshua Doležal, Bowen Dwelle, Michael Mohr's Sincere American Writing, Latham Turner, Lyle McKeany, and here at Of a Sober Mind.

In the past year-plus we’ve written about trust, fatherhood, recovery, and work. We continue to explore our lives as men through these collaborations. This week, all of us wrestle with what home means to us.

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My mom Laree, my two younger brothers LtoR Mark and Jon, and my bespectacled self at 5 1/2.

Like so much in my life my understanding of home has changed. I moved a lot as a kid and explored the topic last year in an essay called; We’re Moving Again.

I became accustomed to leaving a place and going to a new one—homes, cities, states. As a child I had no choice. Long before email and cellphones. There would be no staying in touch. Kicking and screaming at first—not understanding how home could be ripped out from under me just like that. My friends—my teammates—the cool quiet nights of my bedroom listening to crickets, late-night AM radio, and the sound of far-away airplanes.

Are we taking all of our stuff with us?

Where will we live?

I’m not going!!!

Goodbye Kevin, Robert, Danny—I guess I’ll never see you again.

Then accepting the adventure of it—as it was settling into my psyche—growing slowly as I grew up through continual moving.

Hello Ronnie, David, Murray—will you be my new home friends?

As an adult I became the one that made the choice. I did it frequently. I have many childhood friends who live mere houses or blocks or miles from where they grew up and where their parents still live. Clearly their definition of home has a different meaning. For me—home has always represented less about a place—and more about what surrounds me.

As I’ve written about in previous essays—busting a move became an artform in my life. In recovery we call it geographical. I have less-than-fond memories of leaving entire album collections in a buddy’s garage—never to be seen again by me.

I’m not comfortable here anymore. Someplace else must be better. I’m outta here.

And of course it was the same in the new place cuz there I still was.

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Last week marked a homecoming for me. This summer is the first time in over 40 years that I’ve moved homes—only temporarily—to eventually return to my home. I use the word home in this particular case to mean where one lives. My wife Ann and I decided we’d had enough of Central Texas summers and had an opportunity this summer to rent a home in the mountains of Northeastern Arizona in a town called Payson. We’ve been there since early June and have returned to our Texas home just last week—two cars, a trailer with my motorcycle—and the three dogs.

We love where we live in our small community of Wimberley, Texas but the summers can be brutal—and the last two were. This summer in Central Texas was the coolest and wettest in nearly fifty years. Of course it was.

Both Ann and I have spent the majority of our adult lives in Western climates—California, Oregon, and Montana for her—Colorado and Arizona for me. A chance to spend a summer in cool mornings and evenings—low humidity—and surrounded by National Forest—was impossible to pass up. An added bonus was 30 rounds of golf on the adjoining club.

Among the many reasons we busted a move this summer was to remember what it felt like to be near public lands—open for recreation and exploration. Having spent so much time in National Forests and BLM lands in the western states—it was a shock to our system when we moved to Texas and found out that there really isn’t any. With the singular exception of Big Bend National Park—which isn’t exactly an easy get to—Texas is privately owned and fenced off. I wrote about this concept in a previous essay Texas and Texans.

Ann and I were seeking the freedom to wander once again—to drive down a barely-marked dirt road in search of a shimmering and shaded green patch with a river running through it. We found multitudes this summer and it was blissful.

Home has so many iterations and connotations—so many contexts.

Home plate, Home team, Home room, Home body, Homeland, Hometown, Homegrown, Home-cookin’, Homeboy, Homemaker.

While I’m homing in on my idea of what home is—here’s a sidebar that I’ve always found weird about home as it relates to sports.

I lived in Colorado for twenty-five years. I’m still a Denver Broncos fan. I haven’t lived in the St. Louis area for almost fifty years. I’m still a St. Louis Cardinals baseball fan. Although I don’t live in these places anymore, I’m still a homer. What’s up with that? Not one of the players or managers or owners that I knew are still around—but I still root passionately for those teams—and get royally pissed when they lose or play poorly. Because at one point they were my home team. Sports fandom has always been weird like that. I get the college or university alumni loyalty—but pro teams?

I digress.

The song Homecoming by Josh Ritter speaks to me. Here’s a link to the song, followed by some of the lyrics.

Homecoming

I feel a change in the weather
I feel a change in me
The days are getting shorter
And the birds begin to leave

Even me, yes, yes, you all
Who has been so long alone
I'm headed home
Headed home

The nights are getting colder now
And the air is getting crisp
Our first taste of the universe
On a night like this

A box of wine, an alibi
And the hunger in her eyes
In the place where the tree of good and evil
Still resides
Still resides

Homecoming
Homecoming, homecoming

Hey now
When the oracle spoke to me
She was like a roadside song (don't go away now)
Do unto others as you would have them do
Even if in turn they do you wrong (hey now)
This town right here's my everything
And though I’d be torn away (don't go away now)
It had my heart, it has my heart
Be still, my heart, my heart will stay (hey now)
My heart will stay, my heart will stay, my heart will stay
Don't go away now

The air is getting colder now
The nights are getting crisp
I first tasted the universe
On a night like this
An alibi, a box of wine
And the hunger in your eyes
In the place where the tree of good and evil
Still resides

Homecoming
Homecoming, homecoming.

There have been many times in my life I’ve not owned a home. Like others, I’ve gone through various phases of renting, crashing, or visiting. For a long while in my career hotels became a comfort—it felt right to stay on the move and always have someone cleaning up after you. I traveled like that for nearly two decades—forty-eight of fifty-two weekends—somewhere besides where I owned a home.

In younger years I preferred the excitement of the big city—living in a loft mere stumbling distance from my favorite watering holes. I suppose this is not uncommon. Now I prefer quieter environs—a country setting where the conveniences of life are a short car ride away—but with some ground in between me and other folks. I suppose this also is not uncommon.

Is it the place? Is it the people in the place? Or is it the experience? I can feel at home nearly anywhere.

I’ve built houses for others on spec. I’ve remodeled houses that I lived in while fixing them up for someone else to live in. Were those homes? They were for someone—not for me.

As a grown-ass man I’ve owned a variety of homes. Suburban bungalows—ski houses—downtown lofts—townhomes—historic homes—and acreage. Each of them felt like home at the time. After all—I was living there—as were my dog or dogs at the time.

The home I co-own—note the operative word co—now with my bride of nine months feels more like home than any other has. Is it because we’ve built a life together there? I think so yes. We made a decision three years ago to cohabitate—and bought a home together. We both knew that at our age—and with our experience—this was the biggest step. Last October I proposed. In December we were married.

In the past I always looked forward to trips—whether vacations or business trips—and also looked forward to coming home. Now when I travel solo—which is rare—I miss home. Am I missing the brick and mortar? No. I’m missing the feeling of being home with my love. Where she is and where they (the dogs) are is my home. When I’m away I’d prefer to be there.

Another lyric that has always struck me is from Home by Simon and Garfunkel:

Homeward-bound
I wish I was homeward-bound
Home where my thoughts are skipping
Home where my music's playing
Home where my love lies waiting silently for me

On this summer journey my love(s) were with me. Our sense of Home traveled—from one house to another—and we made the temporary house home. But despite all the goodness that we experienced this summer, when we arrived home we knew beyond all doubt. We were home.

Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed this piece—poke that heart button—or leave a comment below with your thoughts on home. All six of us would appreciate hearing from you.