Perhaps my reflections on “homelessness” were unduly influenced by the notion of “homes” being physical structures. The whole notion of “hearth and home” and all that. And without doubt the iconic image of folks gathered around the fireplace popping corn and roasting apples is a powerful one, despite the fact that the flames are gas generated and the apples are most likely GMO. I actually did my Ph.D dissertation, lo’ those many years ago, on the inherent power of visual images on celebratory moments. Sparing you those many pages, let me simply assert that those are very powerful images - particularly Thanksgiving. Again I’ll be sparing you those many pages of explanation.
The point is that it struck me that the idea that “home” is irrevocably linked to the structure in which we lay our weary head at close of day is at least partially flawed. As I thought about it, I was further persuaded that, for me anyhow, “home” was most strongly linked to the natural spaces and experiences that contained those physical structures. The “where” at least as much as the “what.” That assertion may itself be influenced by the fact that I am typing these words on the infuriatingly tiny keyboard of my phone while seated on a rustic bench in the Ralston Arboretum in Raleigh, NC.
This is the exact same bench where, 45 years ago, I used to tote my briefcase stuffed with 40 or 50 typewritten manuscripts (No, I will not grade handwritten papers, no matter if your other teachers say it is fine with them.) I would then pull out my red pencil and proceed to “mark” the papers, blissfully unaware that current data would indicate that “marking papers in red causes students to believe they have done something ‘wrong’.” Well, duh. It was marked in red because they did something “wrong.” There was, and still is, something pure and simple about this old bench, something more like “home” than the slick and shiny new buildings peeking over the horizons of the campus just east of this sheltered spot.
Similarly, when I attended my 50th class reunion at Kalamazoo College a couple of weeks ago, I expected to find much changed at my old alma mater. I was pleasantly surprised to find that most of the inevitable changes had actually enhanced the old - founded in 1833, old here in the Midwest - campus. Yet, there were enough subtle changes to allow us to debate whether or not that science building had once been a women’s dorm, the doors of which were locked at midnight. And where was the location of the coffee shop where we presented our avant-garde radical one-act plays? And what was it called, The Black Door? The Black Spot? Certainly nothing with such an unenlightened moniker could be found on current campus maps.
What had gone wonderfully unchanged however was the iconical cemetery a couple blocks north of campus. The entrance is guarded by a gothic mansion seemingly just made for an Addams Family special. The road then winds up a hill, steep in places, that eventually passes statuary that pay homage to Kalamazoo’s notables; the Gibson guitar family, the Markins who produced Marathon autos, aka Checker cabs, and the founders of the Upjohn Drug - hmm, cartel is probably a bad descriptor for the Upjohn-Dalton clan who contributed so much to Theater and the arts in that neck of the woods…. But very cool, if admittedly paternal, monuments.
I remember the cemetery best in its winter garb when the drifting snow painted the barren trees and tombstones in appropriate Dickensian monochrome. It is effortless to imagine Jacob Marley being laid to rest here in some hidden corner of this darker version of what “home” might be. Certainly a Dickensian idyll is preferable to the sobriquet my old friend and K-college roommate hung on the place, hopefully in warmer times: the make-out cemetery.
Another of my “homes” that is not a house is a barn. Well, not actually the whole barn, just the peak of the roof where my cousin Doug and I would perch, watching storms roll in across the seemingly endless plains of South Dakota. Being somewhat agoraphobic, I have no idea how we got up there. No doubt I have repressed that part of the adventure. But there we were, hoping that the majestic clouds would sweep past our equally deserving neighbors, retaining their precious bounty of rain to fall upon the home place, Schrag Shorthorn Farms.
I have already decried the modern day neglect of cabin #12 in the pines at Tower Hill Camp in Sawyer, Michigan, but in all fairness I need to note that the stream still exists. You see, in those magical days, before one would deign to drive over to the state beach at Warren Dunes, we would pack up everything needed for a day at the beach - blankets, floats, thermoses, snorkels, masks, suntan lotion, (remember this was the 1950s), books and beverages, and - finally - set out for the stream that was the back door to the Tower Hill beach. The stream was an imminently wadable, magical place, running close to, parallel to, but still a special distance from the entrance road to the state park. It was rarely more than knee deep - unless you sought out the deeper pools to which the ever-present minnows would flee before our intrusion. It was always, it seemed, cool and shadowy even on the brightest and hottest days. Shadowy and secret. We could hear the cars whizzing by on the road above, but it is doubtful that, even if they chose to stop and peer down, that they could see us - or if we kept quite still - even hear us. Shadowy, secret and silent. Surely every home should have such a place in it?
So getting your feet wet in a particular stream can define a piece of home, but other senses can also claim their share of home building. Certain aromas can be transformative. Mall fast food marketers will run a fan to waft the hopefully mouth-watering scent of their product out to mingle with other tacos, burgers, donuts, etc. My olfactory “home” has different roots.
In 1964 an oddly named musical opened to less than stellar reviews in London. The Roar of the Greasepaint, The Smell of the Crowd never made it to the West End, but the effort traveled well and the show later enjoyed a successful run here in the States. The show remains special to me as I played one of the leads in the version we performed at Kalamazoo College in, humm, must of been1968 or 69. The title is an obvious play on the old theatrical trope “the smell of the greasepaint, the roar of the crowd” that seeks to capture the allure of live theater. And the original version does a rather good job of pointing to the magical tension that exists between performer and audience. Additionally that tension has a specific olfactory recipe. It is brewed, quite literary, from the smell of greasepaint and cold cream, anxiety and anticipation, and the murmur of snatches of interpretive lines, all stirred and heated by the harsh lights surrounding the mirrors in the make-up room. Faces peer at themselves, brushing on highlights and shadow, seeking just the right magical moment to lose the face that “was” in exchange for the character’s face that “now needs to be.” It is a unique sensory environment; one that, once experienced, remains forever unforgotten.
It is that unique sensory space that, in varying degrees, takes on different guises in different situations. But there is a consistency in that the performer retains an obligation to guide audiences to a place of grace. So, to further untangle and hopefully clarify the title, it was the smell of the greasepaint that hopefully presaged the transformation of the the crowd from an unfocused roar to the less strident whisper of understanding. And it was that tingle of anticipation before stepping out in front of a, hopefully attentive, student audience that constituted a vital aspect of my “home” for 45 years. But, when the tingle began to fade and when, in a large part due to technology, the distance between performer and audience stretched to a degree I found uncomfortable, it became time to wrap that particular part of my “home” in tissue paper, and put it up on a shelf until, or if, needed. Hence for the time being my writing and drawing here on The Wall must suffice for my performances from which hopefully you - as audience - may glean a glimpse of shared grace.
So do I still claim to be homeless? Well, certainly in part according to my rather unique definition. I currently reside in two physical structures within each of which I can lose not only objects - keys, phones, iPads, reading and/or driving glasses, etc., - but myself as well. When I wake up at 3:00 AM and need to find either the refrigerator or the bathroom, which way to I turn? Mistaking one for the other can have dire consequences. And when I leave one structure in search of say milk, eggs, booze or bread, does the map in my head automatically default to the map on my phone? Naturally. So yes, if that kind of aimless wandering in a structural wilderness means I am homeless, I’ll still must raise my hand.
However, what may have changed is my definition of home. To be homeless in the traditional sense means one has no home, again in the traditional sense; no exclusive physical place that contains your experiences. In that sense I am either “homerich” or “scatterhomed” in that the places and spaces that contain the experiences and relationships that define me - that are most precious to me - are many and widely scattered.
So that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. For the moment anyhow.
