Homing
Talking about where we come from, where we are going, and what the two have to do with each other.
When I was 17, I knew exactly where I wanted to live. I planned to attend college and maybe go abroad, but then I would return to Ann Arbor — my hometown. I would live on West Washington Street, close to the YMCA. It’d be the downtown end of the street, just a few blocks from Downtown Home and Garden. Every morning, I would stop at that shop for a cup of coffee and a cinnamon raisin bagel while taking my big, happy dog for a walk (preferably a Great Dane or a Poodle). My house would have a porch with a pair of chairs. I would sit there in all weather to read the many books filling my built-in bookshelves. I would have lace curtains in my windows. My house would be blue, or purple, or green with a white trim and a red door. I would have a garden in the yard where I would grow peppers, tomatoes, onions, carrots, lettuce, herbs, and sunflowers. All produce I could not grow myself, I would buy at the farmer’s market next to Kerry Town early on Saturday mornings before a relaxed breakfast at Zingermann’s Deli. I would go extra early before the lines to get their corned beef hash with rye toast or a Lox Special. I would buy flower bulbs in the winter so that in the spring, daffodils and tulips would sprout and bloom all around the house just in time for my birthday. In the summer, there would be hydrangeas. I would know my neighbors and invite them over for pizza nights, tea on a rainy day, or cocktails on the porch on a Friday while music played inside, drifting to us through open windows. I would buy apples at the Dexter Cider Mill and make applesauce to can for the winter. I would walk to the Washtenaw Diary, just as my parents walked me in my stroller so many years ago, to get the very best Superman ice cream. I would have season tickets for the U of M football games. I would take myself on dates to the Michigan Theater on Liberty St. And every evening when my happy day would be done and my work of some kind finally finished, I would put on pajamas, climb into my soft bed with one of Grandma’s quilts over the top, and I would be so content knowing l’d get to wake up to this life again in the morning.
Truthfully, I became a bit obsessed with this dream. I talked about it with my best friend, pouring over every detail. I pined for it when school got hard. When I was home from college, I worked out at the YMCA on W. Washington and envied the real locals who could walk to yoga. I even got a job at Downtown Home and Garden for a spell and parked on my street every day. I sold early morning coffee and bagels to people with happy dogs of all sizes, and I hoped it would be me someday on the other side of the counter.
Time goes by, as it does, and I wonder if 17-year-old me might be a little disappointed that I am now 30 and not living in a purple house with a red door and a big happy dog. I am in an old, drafty apartment with a parking lot view and mountains in the distance. I have to stand next to the heater to stay warm in the morning. I brew my own coffee. There is not a decent bagel to be found. I don’t have a big, happy dog, but I am the estranged parent of a wonderfully persnickety cat. I miss her every day. I do have a little balcony, but I haven’t grown any flowers on it yet. The quilt on my bed, while warm, wasn’t made by my grandmother. There isn’t a YMCA, or really any gym, in town. My thirty boxes of books, so carefully collected and loved, are in storage under furniture and squeezed into corners at my parents’ house.
How different!
I’ve moved a lot since 17, and every place I’ve been has left some impression on me. I’ve spent time in sprawling cities and in towns with two stoplights (lookin’ at you, Ottsville). I’ve suffered northern snow and endured the baking heat of San Antonio. In every home, I look for where I want to go and where I want to stay. In eight years, I have only visited Ann Arbor twice. Only on one of those trips did I stop by W. Washington St.
Have you ever driven past a house you used to live in but is now occupied by strangers with their own worlds and happenings? It’s so weird. What do you call a home that no longer has what it needs to be a home? When it only has memories? Is it just a place? Is it less than that - a liminal space belonging to your ghosts? Is there a word for it? Perhaps what I want is a word for the way we feel when confronted with our pasts and see how life has changed. The emotion is a mix of gratitude and awe and love and sorrow and fear all the same time. “Nostalgia” works, but I think the feeling is a touch more melancholic. There must be some obscure 20-point Scrabble word that fits the bill here, so if you know it, feel free to share!
Driving down W. Washington as a visitor, I felt that strangeness. The houses and YMCA were unchanged. The trees were still green, and the dogs were out on walks. I planned to park and walk up the street just to enjoy the views, smells, and sounds. But I didn’t. I smiled at the cute, bright houses, and I kept driving. I saw what I wanted for so long, but it was like looking at a photo of your younger self. You know it’s you, but you can’t quite remember the context or the feeling of being that person. Ann Arbor was wrapped in a thick fog of nostalgia, but without my family there, as they’ve all moved away, it just wasn’t home. I have changed too. I have grown, and my world has gotten bigger. I will always be a Michigander at heart, but I expect I can find what I love about those cute houses and that dream somewhere else.
We had a snowstorm last Wednesday in Maibara. Rattling windows and the bright white of a blizzard woke me up. I dressed warmly and ventured out for work. By the time I arrived, the snow was stuck to my hair and piled on the top of my backpack. My students, who all walk to school, were pulled out for a day so as not to blow away or get hit with flying debris. Trains were delayed and then canceled as the tracks were buried deeper and deeper under the snow. And in the blustery, cold mess, I felt alive. I watched the snow accumulate gleefully, like a kid waiting for the snow day announcement on TV, though I would be a school regardless (teachers in Japa are expected to protect the school, even in a typhoon). By Thursday night, the blizzard finally began to subside. I took myself on a little adventurous walk to the bank. My Doc Martens slipped a bit on the icy spots, but I persevered, wading through the drifts. It was quiet and the sky was indigo. The moon rose slowly over the mountains, and snowflakes twirled under the streetlamps. I haven’t had a real winter in years, and while I don’t love seeing my breath in the morning when I wake up or the numbness of my fingers if they touch the air, I really have missed it. Texas helped me realize that I need to be somewhere with seasons. I am happiest where I can see the weather change by watching the trees or sniffing the air. So I’ll look for that in my future.
By last Sunday, the snow was nearly melted and the trains were running again. With the sun promised, I headed down to Kusatsu, a town in southern Shiga Prefecture, for my favorite farmer’s market. I talked with the farmers as best I could. They told me where their farms are located and how to cook with the radishes, greens, and carrots I purchased. I happily hauled my bounty of fresh bread and vegetables home while dreaming up recipes. Later that night, over a steaming bowl of home-cooked stew, I rejoiced in knowing that I have a bread guy now! I have plans for pickled carrots and daikon! I have mystery greens in my fridge! I love farmer’s markets, so I’ll look for that too.
You see, I think what I dreamed about at 17 wasn’t a house, or a street, or a dog, or even Ann Arbor. It was a life. The things I found myself caring about then — fresh produce, pets, time to read and cook — are all comforts I can have anywhere. I may never live in Ann Arbor again. It would feel like moving backward. But my parents raised me there, so a little bit of them, and of that town, will probably always be with me. I love all farmer’s markets because I loved the one my mother dragged me to. I love fresh ingredients and eating homecooked meals because my parents took me mushroom hunting for morels and taught me how to cook. Superman Ice Cream runs in my veins, pink and blue and yellow and bubblegum. I can’t paint my apartment purple, but I can have lace curtains. I found a plant store a short bike ride away, so this spring promises flowers, peppers, and tomatoes.
I am grateful for the homes I have had. I am grateful for the walls I have hung pictures on and the kitchens I have broken in. I am grateful that home was always a place of safety for me. But homes change, and once something is in the past, it usually stays there. Someday, I’ll visit San Antonio, and it will feel strange, just like Ann Arbor does now. The adventures I have here will turn Maibara into home. It’s already started. And years from now, I may come back and walk past my little apartment belonging to a new English teacher, and again it’ll feel strange. With each move, home becomes less and less a place. It is increasingly me. It’s in everything I look for and in every choice I make. It’s in the farmer’s market and the curtains. It’ll be wherever I am, and that’s good.
What about you? Where are you reading this? Are you at home, or at work, or on vacation? When you wake up in the morning and you look around, do you have the life you hoped for when you were 17? Some of you are younger than I am, only just beginning your journeys after high school. 17 is so fresh for you, so what is the dream you have now? Some of you are like me, still young but beginning to finally settle into adulthood. What is your dream shaping up to be? Some of you have a few years on me — more moves and experience. Where or what have you found home to be? What was the dream at 17? At 30? At 56? At 70? Do you feel nostalgic for the past or are you content to build your home wherever you are? Maybe it’s a mix of the two. Wherever you are in life and in the world, I invite you to think about it, and as usual, I’d love to hear what you come up with! In the meantime, I’ll be standing by the heater, sipping on my coffee, and living well.
Stay warm, stay safe, and until next time, cheers!
Ending Notes
Thanks to everyone who reached out after my last newsletter! I loved reading about your reactions and experiences! The world really isn't so big when we can commmunicate here. If you liked this post, want to see more like it in your inbox, or know someone who you think might enjoy it, there are buttons to click!
Listening to: I finally watched The Bear on Disney+. What a show! It’s so full of Chicago goodness, and while I am a Michigander, the whole Midwest really has a place in my heart. Since watching it a couple of weeks ago, I’ve been back on a Sufjan Stevens kick (though when am I ever OFF a Sufjan Stevens kick?). His new album, Javelin, which came out in 2023 is excellent, but I’ve been streaming his older stuff. His 2004 album, Seven Swans, got me through all my feels in high school and college. His debut 2003 album, Michigan, sounds like lakes, cans of pop, and driving on Highway 94. It’s perfect music for holing up at home, which is all I want to do most days when it’s so cold.
Recent Eats: Stew! I wouldn’t be a hobbit person if stew wasn’t on my mind most of the time. I’ve been finding really nice potatoes at the market and grocery store lately. I make a simple and quick stew with a few small potatoes chopped up, some sausage (chorizo would be perfect, but alas, I can’t find it), and a leek or large green onion. Add some water or stock, a bay leaf, some spices, some salt, and let it simmer until you’re happy with it. My favorite trick is to remove some of the soft potatoes and mash them up before adding them back to the pot. They immediately thicken the broth. No corn starch needed. It's best served hot with an audiobook and a hunk of bread!
(Mostly) Ditto you and Linda R below. Left home at 18 to join the Air Force and never looked back, as I knew life was evolving and, with a lot of it being new, all the changes -both good & bad- were new experiences for me on the way to my becoming who I am, today (hmm . . . also good and bad :) ). Loved my family, of course, but was never homesick a day in my life; still am not. Like you and Linda, I Google Earth my old home, but in remembrance only, wondering, who are the strangers who live there now and wonder what they've done with my room. And, where are the friends from those days, who, unlike me, have gotten much older . . . But, Laura, absolutely love that you're living life and that you're experiencing new things, people, customs, language, everyday. We only grow through change. Carry on!
I too have moved about, and at 63, have come to feel that wherever I am is home. All places I’ve lived had things to offer, and things to endure. Thanks for making me stop and reflect. My dream was always to live in my grandparents cabin on Lake 27 in Michigan. It was sold many years ago, and torn down to make way for a fancy new cottage. I’ve been back to the lake, but it’s like communing with a ghost. I’ve lost the direct contact and can only go there in my dreams. But it still anchors me, all these decades later. The roots of my family extend through the cabin back to the ancestors. I’m happy to know where I’m from and at peace where I am. And there are still adventures ahead! Though maybe not as adventurous as your life is! I’m glad to know that I am part of your roots, and that you’re happy. About that persnickety cat though...