Home is Where the Heart Is

  I've just finished "The Wilder Life: My Adventures in the Lost World of Little House on the Prairie," by Wendy McClure.

I was hesitant to read the book, based on some of the snippets I had come across. I did not want my "Little World" to crumble. The more I read, the more I realized that I had made peace with Laura's world; that mixture of truth and fiction long ago. 

When I was 14, I found Donald Zochert's 1976 biography of Laura Ingalls Wilder. Discovering more about Laura's life (once I recovered from the shock of seeing the Ingalls in photographs that did not exactly match those beautiful Garth Williams book illustrations.)

I drove home thinking about how much we long for things from long ago. Our childhood homes, friends, precious keepsakes or just a time when life was simpler. We seem to look backwards more often as we grow older, remembering those precious times.

I was particularly homesick for my childhood home in Maryland, when my children and I were moving every two years for the man of the house's job. The almost continual uprooting that came with regularity caused me to long for the days I spent with my brothers and sisters in Maryland. Our house was quite small for eight people, but we managed to have a lot of good times. I wanted my children to feel rooted and settled in a town, much as Ma Ingalls craved it for her own brood.

Every time we pulled up stakes and moved on, I had a fleeting glimpse of how Laura must have felt climbing into the covered wagon, yet again. The mixture of excitement and trepidation that comes from starting over in a new place.

 Laura and Almanzo returned for a visit many years later and Laura was quite cranky and upset over how much things had changed. Her experience reminded me of traveling back to Maryland a few years ago. 

The whole experience was bittersweet. The neighborhood had changed and even our footbridge at the end of the street that crossed Sligo Creek was torn down. I used to dream of moving back "home." Now, I don't know where exactly "home" is.

All of these thoughts were going through my mind when my husband sent me a random message this afternoon. He told me he was suddenly feeling homesick for his childhood city. He had been reading something about Charleston, South Carolina and was filled with a rush of memories of his hometown.

I'm ready to take a road trip back, to visit the places he remembers from the past. One day I will record all that I can remember about my own childhood, so maybe in future, my grandchildren will read about Grandma's wonderful times long ago.

Goodbyes

I'm taking my oldest to the airport in a few minutes. He is going back to Cincinnati, where in a couple of weeks he will begin his last year of college.

I usually volunteer to pick him up from the airport, but avoid the return trip for one simple reason- I hate goodbyes.

He's twenty-one, but leaving him at the terminal brings back so many painful memories. Like the first time I left him with a babysitter, or all those early mornings I had to drop him off at pre-K. There he sat with the other working mother's orphans, in a little room watching Sesame Street until school began.


Taking him to Boy Scout camp gave me an anxiety attack. He was leaving the STATE for a entire week. I will confess now, that I wrote the worst case scenario book (kidding- but I could have!)
I worried about snakes, homesickness, drowning- you get the picture.

When he left for college four years ago, I helped him pack his bags. I told his father that I would not make the drive to Ohio. I could not bear the thought of leaving him at the dorm, and driving 600 miles south without him.

I am going to say goodbye at the terminal with a smile and a big hug. Then I will drive south with my eyes streaming; a kleenex balled in my fist.

Time Machine

We went on a day trip to spend a little time with my folks yesterday. It was a chance for my oldest child to see his grandparents for the first time since Winter Break.

My parents were in the mood to share some terrific stories from the past. My Dad recalled the time he suffered a minor injury while on leave from the Navy. The story was fascinating, but what I found amazing was my Mother's disclosure of events that happened during the same time. She had never revealed her difficult time living with her in-laws to anyone.

Later we discovered a bin of photos my Mom had received from her Mother's photo albums. As I looked through the pictures I was transported back in time.

There were pictures of our little home in Maryland. When we had last talked about our old home, I realized that the images of the house were beginning to fade in my memory. I used to remember every detail, but like an old photo, the images were becoming faint.

As we talked about the photos, the neighborhood and the house became alive again. I was young again, living with my Mommy and Daddy in the house on the hill. I left that evening wrapped in those warm memories.

At home, as we settled down to our evening routines, my oldest curled up beside me on the sofa. He has not cuddled up to me since he entered high school. As I rubbed his back and shoulders, I was transported back in time once more. I was the Mommy offering love and comfort to my own baby.

The most amazing time machine is within our own precious memories.

Waxy Yellow Build-Up

I broke down and washed my kitchen floor this morning. It ranks up there with all the other thankless household chores I loathe: cleaning bathrooms, and doing laundry. What's the point? It all gets dirty again, usually within minutes of finishing the job.

As I so often do, I let my mind wander away from the task at hand and on to other topics ranging from, "curses on the original owners for choosing SNOW WHITE tile for a kitchen," and "remember when Mom used to scrub floors on their hands and knees? And finally, "why does a clean floor give me such a feeling of accomplishment, however fleeting?"

My propensity for cleaning comes through my bloodlines. Both parents were sticklers for cleanliness. My Dad often had us picking up visible (and not so visible) lint off living room carpet, and taught us how to pull up and tuck in our sheets and blankets; tight enough to pass his inspection.

My mother kept a spotless house which was no small feat considering six children occupied a 1200 square foot home. There was never a ring around the bathtub we all shared, or toothpaste left in the sink. The wooden floors in the bedrooms were polished with a buffing machine and paste wax every two weeks. She scrubbed the cracked and ugly linoleum in our tiny kitchen once a week on her hands and knees followed by a coat of Johnson's floor wax.

While the floor dried my mother was able to sit down and relax for a few minutes. She would watch her "stories," or look at Good Housekeepingg. Sometimes she would lay her head on the sofa pillow and take a short nap.

Women, for generations, were judged for their housekeeping abilities. A clean kitchen floor, dust-free furniture, and sparkling bathrooms meant a woman was a good homemaker, a good wife and a caring mother.

Even though women are now working full time, they are still performing 85% of the household chores,according to Department of Labor 2009 statistics.
Ads for household cleaning and laundry products are typically aimed at women.

Old habits die hard.

It seems we are still being judged, whether real or imagined, on our waxy yellow build-up.

Diary of an Ordinary Housewife

I love journals. I enjoy reading the diaries and letters of the famous and not so famous and I recently picked up a book called, "This Day, Diaries from American Women."

The book is the result of a project in which the author, Joni B. Cole asked women if each would write about one day in her life, or contribute a page from their own journals. The response was overwhelming. Over 500 women submitted entries. The book is a glimpse into the lives of many women from all walks of life.

I kept journals while my kids were young. Many days my writing was nothing more than a brief recall of the details of our day. But when I read over those entries, I am filled with bittersweet memories. Those days seemed so ordinary and mundane at the time, but now they are so very precious to me.

The author and her partners also asked each participant, "Whose day diary would you like to read?"

I want to read the diaries of my female ancestors. I would love to hear about their typical day fifty, or one hundred years ago. How did they spend their days? What were they thinking about, worrying over, celebrating?

So, now I'm going to ask you the same question. Whose diary would you like to read?

Books That Changed My Life...

I've been surrounded by book talk this past week. I've been reading book reviews, thinking of starting a book club, and pondering how to create a culture of reading with my students.

Books, like songs, are strongly attached to some of my most vivid memories. For example,I remember the day a friend pulled "Little House in the Big Woods" off the shelf of our tiny school library and placed it in my hands. Those books gave me the first glimpse into using memories to tell a story. Then there are the books that helped me get through some difficult times.

When I was ten, I had to spend two weeks with my newly widowed Grandmother. There was nothing to read except Good Housekeeping and nothing to do, except watch her "stories" every afternoon. When my Mom offered to stop by with a library book I chose a familiar book for comfort and escape, a biography of Dolley Madison.

The summer I crushed my big toe (long story), I couldn't ride my bike or walk very far. I spent most of my vacation reading books by my newly discovered favorite writer, Victoria Holt.

In college, far from home, living in a one room apartment "The Thorn Birds" was my date on a Saturday night for the first few weeks until I made some friends.

Frequent middle of the night feedings with my firstborn became a time to read so that I didn't fall asleep and drop him. The Shell Seekers grabbed my attention and often I would put the baby back to bed and continue reading.

When my marriage began to fall apart, "A Year by the Sea," by Joan Anderson gave me the strength to move on and rediscover who I was.

Just thinking of a particular book can bring the memories flooding back. Books canchange us, enrich us, challenge us, and comfort us. That's the message I would like to share with my students.