Homelessness

Being well aware of the millions of people around the world without a roof over their heads or even walls to support a roof, for whom both water and food are  precarious necessities, for whom vaccines are either rumors or myths, not just for Covid-19, but for measles, mumps, and the other diseases creeping back into the 21st century under attack by privileged 1st world anti-vaxxers; yes, I have some, admittedly second-hand, knowledge of what it actually means to be homeless. Yet, while living in a solid, well-insulated structure with central heating, air-conditioning, indoor plumbing, and electrical outlets per code, every 6 feet along each wall, and a dependable internet connection, I still claim to be “homeless.”

Now wait a minute. Let me explain. Mine is a completely different kind of "homelessness," one that has nothing to do, thank god, with a lack of those creature comforts listed above. Rather it has to do with a more ephemeral feeling of “being at home,” of “belonging,” of “well being.” I have a colleague who moved from the mountains of Salt Lake City, Utah to Raleigh, North Carolina, a city perched equidistant between the mountains and the ocean on the east coast. Upon arriving here, after trekking across the continent, “Never,” she claimed, “have I felt more at home.” I envy her, for never have I felt that sense of being at home.

I think it is my mother’s fault. Her’s and her books. For me, being “at home” has almost nothing to do with where I currently reside. Were “home” to be defined by place of residence, I actually have lived in several places long enough for them to take on the quality of “homeness.” I was born in Springfield, Ohio and lived there - with the exception of two years spent in Vienna, Austria - until I got married in 1969. So what, 20 years? Then there was a span of almost 40 years in Raleigh, N.C., teaching at NC State. It was an enjoyable tenure for the most part, but never, to quote John Denver, “Coming home to a place he’d never been before.” And this is where blaming my mother comes in. She was, more than my father, the one who established “reading” as the activity that trumped all others.

Done your homework? I’m reading. OK.

Cleaned up your room? I’m reading. OK.

Coming to dinner? Let me finish this chapter. OK.

And, of course, you could bring your book to the dinner table, where everyone was reading.

The problem was, and is, that the worlds, the “homes,” created in our books were inevitably more wonderful, more engaging, more exciting than the physical homes, the constructed towns, the bustling cities and the day-to-days lives in which we actually lived. Literature - and of course, theater - set the bar of “home” impossibly high.

Another wrinkle in my admittedly distorted notion of “home” was that it was defined more by the people and the relationships surrounding me in my books, than the structures, locales, and relationships in which I happened to be a flesh and blood participant. Again, fiction cranked the bar way beyond Olympic level. Who could really compete for Dulcinea? Perhaps I could if my name were Bond, James Bond. 

And there were those times, as I assume there are for any serious actor, author or playwright, when the line between the fiction you are creating and your “real life” becomes uncomfortably vague. Truth be told, that fuzziness was a major reason that, despite some very tempting opportunities to “do,” I chose instead to “teach.” But I digress.

None of that is to say that I have never encountered places where, as we say in the South, “I might could” choose to make my “home.”  Cabin #12 in the pines at Tower Hill Camp, in Sawyer, Michigan, was one such place. It has the additional appeal of being close to the woods where the ashes of my parents and my older brother lie scattered. However, when I last saw it a year or two ago, it appeared a touch dilapidated. Damaged perhaps during some ill-planned fit of renovation?  The garden of the Hotel Monna Lisa in Florence, Italy, also seems imminently “home-ish.” Still, I’m thinking it would probably get a bit pricey as a permanent residence, and the mosquitoes are killer after sundown. Hmmm. There must be others. Maybe they will come to me later.

So that’s what I mean when I claim to be homeless. Sites in the “real world” fall short of the “home” of my imagination. I have friends who are quite skilled at representational painting, and it is at times like this that I most envy them that talent. I can see the "home place" fairly clearly in my mind’s eye. It is on a secluded lake. Maybe another home or two are scattered around the lake, but distant and hidden by the trees. Too far to walk, but reachable by boat, kayak, or inner tube. My “home” has a boat house. Both structures are rustic. The lake is hemmed in by pines, a few hardwood’s scattered further back. It is northerly enough for snow between Thanksgiving and New Years. Strangely enough, not too far away are some excellent restaurants, shopping, etc., but not enough to attract tourists. Also strangely, there are people around me with whom I share pleasant memories. However, as is common in some of my dreams, I’m not positive just whom they are or the details of the memories we share. And then there is the fact that the real people who are precious to me in my real life would find my “perfect home” excessively bucolic for long term occupancy.  Hence, another major barrier to somehow, sometime, losing my feeling of homelessness.

As I said, this is one of those times when I wish I had some skill at realistic drawing. If I could get the place and the people in my mind down on paper I might be able to recognize my “home” and find a way to get there. Or at least I could create an image where, Denver again, I could “come home to a place I’d never been before.” Until then, I’ll take comfort in Bilbo’s assurance, “The road goes ever on and on.”