At the end of a long day at work, all I could think about was home. The 12-minute drive was just long enough to turn the craving into a yearning. I grabbed my bag and keys, practically sprinting to my second floor apartment, with a half-turn to beep my car doors to lock. I smiled up at my red chile ristra to the left of the front door, struggled with the sticky lock, and kicked off my black ballet flats in the entry way. There was just a hint of fall chill in the air as I quickly shut the door and changed into comfy homey attire of a t-shirt and leggings. Each step through my four rooms gave me pleasure and comfort. I was home.
What is it that makes a place home? How does it go from four walls or four rooms to the sturdy and lovely four letters of home? I have lived in many places as an adult, and in several houses in childhood, and almost every one became home.
In my New Mexico childhood, I loved the green and white house we lived in for a few years with its fortress of trees, a white picket fence, several outbuildings, and wild onions in the side yard. In high school, my mom, younger sister, and I settled into a small three bedroom with a large front porch that became my touchstone in my teen years and during college vacations. We barbecued in the backyard while our dog ran laps, barking at birds and the neighbors, and we held my high school graduation party there. While those houses no longer belong to my family, I still cherish the memories and milestones from those places.
From the age of 18 and onward, I discovered that I could make a home pretty easily. Just about every place I have lived in, I have loved, each for different reasons. College, with life far away from my family for the first time, felt particularly poignant in my efforts to make a home. In the hallway of the second floor of my dorm in my first year of college, I built community and great friendship with many of the women who lived there, some of whom are still among my closest friends across the miles. In the dorm room of my sophomore year, my dear friend Lisa and I hung our laundry from the picture rail near the ceiling and stayed up late into the night sharing stories and secrets while drinking hot tea, or on the weekends when we were feeling clandestine we sipped Kahlua with milk. I moved to a house just at the edge of campus, for part of my junior year, that had a wood-burning stove, both for cooking and heating. To get through the cold Wisconsin winter, I chopped wood in the backyard and savored the smell of wood smoke in all of my clothes. In my last year of college, I moved off campus, and lived in a huge apartment with beautiful wood floors and a hall long enough to rival a bowling alley. It was cheap and quiet and I still remember giggling maniacally while I chased my roommate Susanna down the hall, as we enjoyed the delayed childhood delight of sliding on the floors in our wool socks.
I moved to Albuquerque right after college, and stayed for just a couple of months in a rent-by-the-night-or-week-or-month small studio apartment, spending my first night unpacking and relishing my first place on my own without a roommate. Quickly thereafter, I lived in the Twin Cities for several years, treasuring an apartment for its underground parking space and another for the time that I got to spend and share with two good college friends, Cathy and Myla. We struggled through first jobs and sharing chores and finding our way in the unruly times of our early twenties. In Saint Paul, I fell in love with John who lived two floors above me in a small 11-unit apartment building. We got to know each other while doing laundry and checking our mail, slowly developing into a courtship of shared dinners and beers on the back stoop. He bought a place and we moved into his adorable grey and blue house, my first foray into domestic living with someone I had loved and dated. We stayed together in that house for more than two years, transitioning from a romantic couple to roommates, still delighting in each other’s company. We played bluegrass loudly on his stereo and made pesto and he showed me the joys of grilling in subzero weather and grinding one’s own coffee beans before breakfast. I think of that home fondly and of the kind and goofy and generous man who cried when we said goodbye, as I drove the U-Haul from his driveway to Colorado and new adventures.
In Colorado, after a long and mostly solo time, I lived for several years with my younger sister when she moved back to the United States after a sojourn in Germany. We shared an apartment out of convenience and thrift, as rents went up just as the economy tanked. We possessed the easy comfort and familiarity of sisters, sharing movie nights and long talks, but struggled at times with the frustration of sharing close quarters. When my sister made the plunge from renter to owner, I moved into her spacious two-bedroom condo and found solace in a big room and huge walk-in closet. While she established her home, I made a space for writing and dreaming, knowing that I would be moving on soon. I moved out a year ago, and I love getting her texts as she buys furniture, paints, and makes home improvements.
I moved to Albuquerque just about a year ago and into this apartment 10 months ago, after staying in a couple of temporary places. I look around, hearing the hum of my laptop and the hiss of the tea kettle in the background. I stretch and yawn. I just renewed the lease, and look forward to at least 14 more months in this spot. I know, though, that home is as much a place you love, as it is the setting for your life. Memories, momentos, mornings. They all dwell here. I take a sip of tea. Home, indeed.