Defining home, part 1

The ground feels different under my feet at home. I took time to walk my dog both mornings I spent at my parents’ – it’s so much a part of my routine now that I miss it. Plus, it’s been long enough since my last visit that all the noise can sometimes be overwhelming. The walk was a welcome, if short, escape.

Nostalgia was almost as overwhelming as the noise. My parents live in this u-shaped neighborhood full of modest homes, ranches for the most part, that slopes down to the river if you head left off the blacktopped driveway, and eases ever so gently into moderate hills of farmland if you head right. Throughout my childhood, on bikes or on foot, I headed left. Started toward the river, though I don’t remember it being quite so pretty, and tried to sort out problems.

I was looking around, noting how many houses had welcomed me at some point. Brother’s best friend lived 3 houses down. He’s married now, and his parents moved south after a scandal involving his younger sister. As lovely as I find the Midwest, after you cross a certain line, you’re faced with steady disapproval from some of us. Moving was probably the best idea for them, I decided, returning my gaze to the river before getting too far down the hill.

I looked over at my dog, recalling that a different one used to accompany me. Our old german shepherd trotted gently at my side, looking up, happy to be out, but worried over my melancholy mood. This current dog also has questions, but none involve me – she wants to know her environment, stop to look around and smell, meet all these new friends. I smiled at one point on Sunday, realizing that nearly all the neighborhood dogs were mixed breeds – spots and speckles and ears that weren’t quite pretty. There’s hound in almost all of them, I thought, stopping to rub one finger over a small puppy’s head as we waited for his dad to retrieve him from his impromptu trip with us down the street.

I wrinkled my nose at some houses, remembering students – girls, mostly – that had lived there. I’d ridden my first horse at that house, I thought. And if I went down that drive and into the woods, I’d get to Father Keller’s place. I wondered if he still used the fountain shaped like a frog, feeding into the lake that housed the ducks and single swan. Then realized it’s likely been 15 years since I’ve visited, and that he was quite elderly even then.

Continuing back up the hill, on the other side of the U, I not familiar with as many homes. Memories of Halloween dominate here. How the oversized lots (if you don’t have more than an acre here, what’s the point?) that had allowed room to play in the daytime now made collecting candy a rather lengthy process. My thoughts turned to Mandy, as I walked by her house, remembering countless summer hours battling over a Monopoly board between trips to her pool. Then I recalled more recent events in my grad school city, hoped sincerely that she was doing better – not so distraught over failed relationships, that her headaches requiring my spending 2 nights holding her hand in the ER were under control, feeling guilty but grateful that I didn’t have to force a friendship that no longer truly existed since there is great physical distance between me and the west coast.

Continuing on, I viewed the playground behind the school from the street – it’s tucked away behind the basketball courts and baseball fields that rest behind the sprawling single-story building. A brightly colored system of slides and steps rests where the merry-go-round used to be. The swings, all in various heights, looked old to me. And the slide – the huge, tall slide that was the source a delight, then fear after the very first time I couldn’t breathe after falling down, was gone. Too dangerous, I nodded with approval, remembering lying on the ground, not being able to get air.

I used to walk through that yard, I remembered, looking away from the playground – every day, to and from school, through that expanse of land, into the small path behind it, then down into my own yard. I always had my head down – I don’t remember being sad, necessarily – I just wanted to watch where I was walking. Careful not to fall, more concerned with the very next step than the overall journey. Looking at the bright green grass that would turn brown and crackle under small feet when the summers grew too dry. Shuffling through leaves, noting the differences in resultant sounds when you marched versus kicked through them. Then there’s the hollow sound as you trudge through snow – bundled up, feet heavy from boots.

It’s fenced now, I noted with some regret, having already been warned that I’d need to continue to the highway and walk through the yards there. At age 27, I still was warned to watch for cars and not get too close to the road.

I stepped off the side street and into the first yard I’d cross. I made it three steps before noticing how different the ground felt under my feet than where I live now. There’s underlying rock here in the south – difficult to plant trees and shrubs because you can only dig so far before hitting harsh resistance. I’d been noting similarities between the 2 places earlier – how my house sits atop a hill that slopes to a lake, rather than a river. A single story, light brick structure, much like my parents’ home, it has a generous driveway, but a tiny yard in comparison to the nearly 3 acres my parents own.

I was charmed with the ground up north – perfectly familiar, absolutely lovely. Rich farmland, I thought, with a great deal of pride. Deep, full of nutrients and moisture from the recent rains back home. Soft – there’s noticeable give as you step on it – welcoming you in, then providing steady pressure as you push yourself forward. A bit sandy in our particular neighborhood, due to the proximity to the river, but rich. We grow stuff here quite successfully. And I know it’s boring to drive here – the flat fields offering little in the way of entertainment. I think it’s gorgeous – find myself visibly relaxing as I leave the southern hills and the topography gently eases into flat.

I stepped carefully over a mole hill – I’d stomp it down if I was in my parents’ yard, but I can let them be here. Mom and Dad have fought them for years – the rodents too enjoy the soil in our region. At one point, Dad decided that feeding car exhaust, mint gum, caster oil, and other remedies I can’t remember were inadequate and decided to empty our swimming pool into the network of tunnels one fall. Mom backed him up, and I remember sitting at the counter, helping with dinner, when he came in later on.

With a shrug, he informed us that it didn’t work, but that was fine. He had become the founder of the YMSA. I smiled – I’m crazy about acronyms from years living with Dad – and Mom cocked her head and asked what that meant. “Young Moles Swimming Association.” Dad replied, heading down the hall. “When they make t-shirts, my picture’s going to be on the front. Because I’m their leader. I gave them the water.”

And, like the moles, I guess I dug in there in the soft, flat farmland. Sunk my roots so deeply into the ground that I thought I’d prevented myself from being home anywhere else.

But I do find myself nestled into my new environment – my first house (and I will sob upon leaving it – it’s going to be miserably hard for me), first job out of grad school, warm winters, absolutely lovely people. The ground is different here, but I like it. And until I walked through those yards on Saturday morning before a day of errands with my parents, I think I'd forgotten to long for the ground back home.