Growing up I wanted a permanent address and the company of grandparents and cousins. My parents weren’t nomadic, but restless when it came to houses. With the exception of one five-year span after a job transfer landed us in Milwaukee, we moved about every three years. We stayed within the city and its northwest suburbs, as they took steps toward acquiring their dream house. Years after I moved out they found that Colonial on a large lot and settled in. They declared that house the family home. But, my brother and I had already established our own family homes. Then my father’s employer transferred him to Green Bay and they hopped and skipped throughout housing there.
We moved to Minnesota early in our marriage and have lived in the same house for decades. The house changes, but our address and telephone number stay the same. Our adult children have friends who had sleepovers in this house, who took prom pictures in our yard, who attended baby showers and music recitals here as well.
My birth family has all passed. All the holiday ads featuring people driving back to their family homes leaves me feeling unsettled. Was a certain Christmas on 96th Street or 95th? On McCastlen or East River Road? Were we gathered in their first condo or second? Does it matter?
We have a second house that we consider home as well. It is filled with memories of extended family and friends relaxing together, celebrating birthdays, holidays, and a marriage. Both places provide shelter, refuge, ice dams and landscaping fun.
Home is…? In spite of the satisfaction I feel about providing our family with the stability of one address, I want to believe that home is a more complex set of emotions that can be transferred with us to new settings. We are most fortunate to have a permanent address and the company of friends and family that make this home.