Sometimes I get homesick but I don’t exactly know how to pin down my definition of “home”. Sometimes, it is a small studio apartment my mom shared with her Chihuahua. I never lived there, but it is the first spot I remember her and my little buddy living alone without me. She’s in Australia now and Oliver has gone on. If there is a doggy heaven he’s wheezing and shaking at the sight of all the other bigger dogs that have gone before him.
Sometimes home is the ranch style house we lived in from my 4th grade year until I was a high school sophomore. Its full of memories of my Mom in a body cast following one of her many back surgeries and the yelling that accompanied her disintegrating marriage to my step father. For me, those days were mostly spent in the throws of puberty and dealing with being a rather fat kid who was the last on his block to get cable.
Sometimes home is the condo Mom fled to on the beautiful beaches of St. Augustine. It was really the first time in my life I had some level of freedom. I worked the entire first summer bagging groceries in the evenings and spent the day basking in the sun. I got tanned, lost weight and went through being the new kid. While I wasn’t the most popular kid in school, it did afford me the chance to make some friends, go to some dances and generally have fun without getting into real trouble.
Then came college where nothing ever felt like home. Since then I can not say I have ever laid down much in the way of roots. For a while my ex and I had a condo, but I didn’t even have a corner of that place to myself, let a lone a room of my own. If you can not put up a poster or even have much of your own stuff out in the open, then that does not a home make. Otherwise, I have drifted from dorms to apartments for the better part of a decade. I currently live in a pretty nice house with my best friend from high school. It has been the longest I’ve stayed in one place since high school. I’m currently at the year and a half mark.
Maybe it is sort of sad that the last decade of my life has personified that Dave Matthews line that keeps replying in my head, “a rolling stone gathers no moss, just leave a trail of busted stuff.” As my roommate’s girlfriend has been spending most nights at “our” place I’m once again realizing home will be taking on a new meaning again soon. She is great and I love the girl to death, so I’m happy for the both of them, but he owns the house and one day the shuffle of me heading off to work will probably be replaced with the pitter patter of their children’s feet.
So here I am once again staring down another cross road. There are plenty of directions I can go. I could be responsible and buy a house or condo here and admit Florida is my home. I could then go about growing old in the place that has served as my base camp for the better part of my time on earth. Yet, I’m not ready for the steady life right now. A home to me represents ties and financial burdens and I can not think of anything more unsettling than watching all my friends settle down and raise a family while I go home to an empty place every night.
Option two involves me finally getting the nerve to move to Seattle. Yes, I could hate it and moving to a city that often tops the national rankings as having the most suicides might not be the best place to send someone who has battled depression. Between here and there is a whole country with millions of livable towns, cities and boroughs. I have yet to meet a city that doesn’t offer some promise of exciting adventures. Soon enough, I’m going to have to decide to take a leap into the unknown and risk coming home all too soon with my tail between my legs or just collapsing into the very comfortable couch that I call my hometown and spend the rest of my days wondering “what if.” What will happen next? Honestly, your guess is as good as mine.
"Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans." -- John Lennon
Sometimes home is the ranch style house we lived in from my 4th grade year until I was a high school sophomore. Its full of memories of my Mom in a body cast following one of her many back surgeries and the yelling that accompanied her disintegrating marriage to my step father. For me, those days were mostly spent in the throws of puberty and dealing with being a rather fat kid who was the last on his block to get cable.
Sometimes home is the condo Mom fled to on the beautiful beaches of St. Augustine. It was really the first time in my life I had some level of freedom. I worked the entire first summer bagging groceries in the evenings and spent the day basking in the sun. I got tanned, lost weight and went through being the new kid. While I wasn’t the most popular kid in school, it did afford me the chance to make some friends, go to some dances and generally have fun without getting into real trouble.
Then came college where nothing ever felt like home. Since then I can not say I have ever laid down much in the way of roots. For a while my ex and I had a condo, but I didn’t even have a corner of that place to myself, let a lone a room of my own. If you can not put up a poster or even have much of your own stuff out in the open, then that does not a home make. Otherwise, I have drifted from dorms to apartments for the better part of a decade. I currently live in a pretty nice house with my best friend from high school. It has been the longest I’ve stayed in one place since high school. I’m currently at the year and a half mark.
Maybe it is sort of sad that the last decade of my life has personified that Dave Matthews line that keeps replying in my head, “a rolling stone gathers no moss, just leave a trail of busted stuff.” As my roommate’s girlfriend has been spending most nights at “our” place I’m once again realizing home will be taking on a new meaning again soon. She is great and I love the girl to death, so I’m happy for the both of them, but he owns the house and one day the shuffle of me heading off to work will probably be replaced with the pitter patter of their children’s feet.
So here I am once again staring down another cross road. There are plenty of directions I can go. I could be responsible and buy a house or condo here and admit Florida is my home. I could then go about growing old in the place that has served as my base camp for the better part of my time on earth. Yet, I’m not ready for the steady life right now. A home to me represents ties and financial burdens and I can not think of anything more unsettling than watching all my friends settle down and raise a family while I go home to an empty place every night.
Option two involves me finally getting the nerve to move to Seattle. Yes, I could hate it and moving to a city that often tops the national rankings as having the most suicides might not be the best place to send someone who has battled depression. Between here and there is a whole country with millions of livable towns, cities and boroughs. I have yet to meet a city that doesn’t offer some promise of exciting adventures. Soon enough, I’m going to have to decide to take a leap into the unknown and risk coming home all too soon with my tail between my legs or just collapsing into the very comfortable couch that I call my hometown and spend the rest of my days wondering “what if.” What will happen next? Honestly, your guess is as good as mine.
"Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans." -- John Lennon
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