As a newlywed in the 1980’s, I dabbled in handcrafts. The “Country” motif was at the height of popularity in those days, and I was looking for ways to give meaningful gifts without breaking our budget. One gift that stands out in my memory was a wooden heart wall hanging I gave my parents one Christmas. The heart hung, suspended by leather ties, from a banner upon which I painted, “Home Is Where You Hang Your Heart.”
Little did I know how much those words would come to mean over the years. My mother died of a sudden heart attack shortly after my twenty-sixth birthday. Her mother had passed just two months prior. Within another two months, Daddy’s mother was also gone. Only then did I realize just how much my definition of “home” was tied to my childhood memories. Although I was a young married woman, “home” to me was still my parents’ house.
I must admit that for many years afterward my heart was unsettled. I had my own home, but I never felt entirely “at home.” Thomas Wolfe’s words came back to me in vivid, painful reality. You really can’t go home again. Through time and tides, I have come to realize that home is not so much a physical location as a place where your heart is at peace. As much as advertisers would have us believe otherwise, “home” is not defined by paint and fabric and furnishings. “Home” is where your people are, where you make your fondest memories.
When I first met my in-laws, they lived just a few miles away, on the other side of my small hometown. I spent many hours at their house, passing through the phases of friendship, courtship, and early marriage. Eighteen years ago, they returned to Indiana, where they had lived for most of my husband’s growing up years. A new home with new surroundings, yet I felt as “at home” there as I ever did in the house where their son and I sat one Saturday morning and decided we would get married if there was money at the end of the budget workbook.
Things and stuff are mostly creature comforts. While certain items trigger fond memories, those memories are associated with the person to whom the item had significance. If you were to visit my home, most likely you would look at the piano sitting in my living room and see a worn-out relic of yesteryear. What makes that piano priceless is that Daddy bought it for Mother over 65 years ago, in the early days of their marriage. My sister and I learned to play on the same keyboard that Mother brought to life with her chorded renditions of favorite hymns and Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood.”
Contentment is a far greater measure of “home” than physical well being or the length of time one spends in a particular place. As a child, “home” was a little white house on Tavern Route. As a teenager, I came to know home within the framework of family. The new house my parents built when I was thirteen was “home” because we lived and made memories there. After the maternal anchors of our family passed, I felt unsettled, even in the midst of loved ones who opened their hearts and homes to us. Now that I have passed life’s half-century mark, when I think of “home” I think of my roots… the close-knit community where I grew up, the church where I found Jesus and my husband, the places I return for holidays and special occasions. I am learning that there is truth in the Scripture, “be content with such things as you have.”
I’ve had this piece written for weeks, save for a suitable ending paragraph. Not that I haven’t tried… the blinking cursor is a cruel jokester, staring back at me, daring me to write while knowing my mind is as blank as the white background of the digital page. Today, I am determined to finish. This happens to be August 21, 2017, otherwise known as the day of the “Great American Eclipse.” My husband and I packed some water and our laptops right after breakfast and headed about 30 miles from our home to observe in an area of totality. We opted to steer clear of scheduled events and crowds today, settling on a roadside park offering scenic views and relative peace and quiet. We sat in the back hatch of my Ford, parked under a shade tree, watching families enjoy picnic lunches as we took advantage of the quiet for some writing time. I was perfectly content to be in familiar surroundings.
Back home, in the quiet comfort of my living room, I still am.
Copyright 2017 Sherry Hathaway. All rights reserved.
I love your little blogs, and this one really hit “home.” Very well written, Sherry. Keep writing.
Thank you, Sheri!
I loved this piece Sherry. I felt like we were sitting in the living room talking about times gone by. 🙂 thank you for sharing your heart
Thank you, Sharon!
Sherry. I loved this blog. It stirred memories of home in me. I really enjoyed the part about your piano…I have an old Hobart Cable my parents bought for me while I was in High School. I wouldn’t part with that treasure for anything. Thanks for sharing and stirring memories.
Thank you, Doyle!
I only have my memories but they are many..and yet with time are fading.. I didn’t get any material things of my “Home” from growing up.. the new tennents kept all , even family pic..but because of the great age of computers and posting, I have gathered some nice pictures of family and places we had been.. I cherish them.. as I do my not so much anymore family..lol to much water under the bridge.. but time is cruel, it takes what memories you have with it and you don’t really know if what you have left was even real.. no proof that your memories are real or that you just want them to be.. Keep writing I do so enjoy it…
Your story made me recall the feeling I had when I lost my parents. I think the thing that hit me after some time had passed was that I could no longer change “roles”. Going home to mu parent’s home always meant I could transition back to a daughter. Once my parents my parents were gone, I had to remain in wifw and mother role. It was a strange realization on my part.