I'd like to take a moment to consider the word "home." You see, yesterday, I found out that I have to leave my home, the apartment I'm renting, because my landlord desperately needs it for his ailing mother. Now, I can't fault him for that. She's family, and she needs his care. So, I'm not angry at being asked to leave. In fact, Michael (my landlord) has been so generous, he's going to let me stay RENT FREE in his mother's soon to be vacant three-bedroom home not far from where I live now. He's going to let me stay there until September, and he's paying to have my things moved over there. So, things could be worse, much worse. I understand that.
I guess the problem is that I have really come to feel like this apartment is my home. I remember last August, finally arriving there. I'd been on the road FOREVER, driving from Virginia. I'd started the day with a flat tire, which cost A LOT of money to fix. And I'd gotten lost somewhere in the great state of New York. A trip that is supposedly only about 7 hours, took twice that. It was almost 11pm by the time I rolled into my little gravel drive way. I figured my landlord would be asleep, but he had left my key where I could find it. I had no idea if the place would be clean, much less habitable. I get in--all the lights work, there's even toilet paper in the bathroom. I'm just so glad to be there, I can hardly stand it. I start to unload my car, and Michael comes out on his front porch with his parnter, Wayne. We chat for a little bit, and I feel utterly foolish for arrive so amazingly late. Michael asks me if I have bed or anything. He was willing to let me stay in his geust room if I needed to. That's how awesome the man has been, since day one.
But it's been more than just my wonderful landlord that's made that apartment into my home. It was my space, cozy, inviting, and far from perfect--I mean, it's got no air conditioning, no dishwasher, and no washer and dryer. The basement, where the bedroom is, has flooded once, during the winter, and twice now, when the humidity outside has become nigh unbearable, l've awakened to find an interesting sheen of condensation on my linoleum floor. So what is it about this apartment that I have come to love so much that I feel it is my home? What makes this place a home?
I think the answer lies in the fact that I've felt rather "homeless," that is emotionally homeless, for some time now. In fact, I think the last time I felt I had a home was when I was in highschool, almost ten years ago. That's a long time to be homeless. Now, remember, I speaking in emotional sense of having a home. And, I am in no way saying that I haven't felt welcomed in my mother's home, for example. I know, that if I needed to, I could move back to her house in Illinois in a heartbeat and she would welcome me with open arms. But let's face it. Living in my mother's office, no matter how much stuff she takes out of it and moves downstairs, will never make it my home. As much as I hate to say it, I'm a guest there now, not a resident, no matter how long I stay.
Of course, I had an apartment in Lawrence, for nearly two years in fact. But that was never really a home to me. I was working on my graduate degree and I knew staying there was only temporary. Besides, it was a crummy little two bedroom apartment with a nonexistent managment staff. No, it was a place I stayed at, lived in, completed my thesis in--but it was never a home.
I had my own room in my mother's house on College Blvd in Lawrence as well. But even then, I knew that wasn't really my home anymore.
And, there was the apartment in New York--but that certainly was never really a home, a walk-in closet with cable and a bathroom that had no sink, yes; but a home?
No, it's been since highschool; I've been homeless since I left to get my undergraduate degree in 1996. that seems like eons ago, and so much has happened since then.
I geuss I felt like I'd finally landed on solid ground we I got to my little apartment late that night last August. I inflated my air mattress for the first time, plugged in my little 13" TV/VCR, popped in a copy of Errol Flynn's Robin Hood, and I went to sleep, knowing that I'd come home. I had nothing but what I'd packed in my car almost five months before. I was in a new state, about to start a new job. I didn't know a soul, and my dog was still in IL. But that night, I felt like I'd come home.
And now, I have to leave again. It's breaking my heart, to be sure. So, what has made this place so special? I'm not sure I can put it into tangible, quantifiable words. I don't think I can label it exactly. All I know is that I'm losing something. I may find some place even better, it's true. I certainly hope so. But I can't help but feel a tremendous loss at the same time. Is that selfish, petty even? There are so many, much bigger problems in this world. And, I suppose I've spent more than enough time on the pity pot for one day. I just felt the need to send this message out into the void--my statement on what makes a place a home.
For now, I've got to hunt down some boxes (wiley critters, them boxes), and pack like a mad woman. A spinster's job is never done (sigh).
