The Thing called Home…

There was a restaurant in Chicago, where I lived many years ago, called ‘Home’. That name was the most pompous, eighties cliché I’d ever heard, and when friends asked me to join them for dinner one evening, I declined. They then offered to treat, and I graciously accepted.Expecting yards of café curtains and a plump, jovial server wearing both a polka dot apron and a tight grey bun, we instead had a lovely young woman with flawless skin take our orders. She was poised and polite, and thankfully didn’t rattle off nine specials or suggest pricey wine. Instead, she served us perfect ‘comfort’ food, very much like the meals we had as children- meatloaf with mashed potatoes, crisp corn on the cob, and a really good apple pie for dessert. The room was simple and quiet (unlike dinnertime when we were kids) and the experience was truly satisfying. Nothing on the menu was labeled ‘Mom’s’ or ‘old fashioned’, which was novel. In a sense, though, it was both.

If a magical definition for ‘home’ captured the essence of everyone’s expectations, selling real estate would be simple. What may work for you, though- a tony high rise building with a doorman- would send me screaming off the thirtieth floor. Ditto the ‘suburban parallel universe’: when everyone living in a subdivision leaves home and returns home at the same time. Garage doors rise automatically like an old Busby Berkeley production number, and neighbors’ hands fan the air in a Queen Elizabeth wave. Doors down, lights off: see you manyana.

I lived in a Mesa subdivision for five years and almost developed carpel tunnel from waving before I finally marched up to several houses, knocked on a few doors, and introduced myself. I was met with surprise and distrust, although one divorcee actually flirted with me. The breeze from her lashes blew my hair back. Why, I asked myself, in a ‘perfect’ neighborhood- tranquil lakes, verdant parks, and not a pothole in sight, did it feel like we lived in the Twilight Zone? Neighborhood block parties were casting calls- cute kids, bounding dogs and kindly Grandpas- but where were they the rest of the year?

When my house sold after fourteen hours on the market- I was smart or lucky, depending on whom you ask- I packed up and moved to Globe. Here was a town which wore its porches proudly, even if some of them sagged to the point of collapse. With nary an HOA Gestapo weasel in sight, I planted flowers whose colors clashed, set out my rusty vintage metal shell chairs, and let my dogs bark until they were hoarse. This was home- a real community filled with people who connected: they laughed, bitched and helped each other out.

At first, folks were polite. Then friendliness- two finger ‘farmer waves’ and idle chats over backyard fences- came later. I realized that many families here go back several generations and because of the boom and bust times, they’ve seen newcomers come and go. It’s only natural not to get effusive and emotional at the first potluck dinner. After awhile, I felt welcomed with open arms, clutched to the heaving bosom of a really terrific little town. Years ago, I had a friend named Barbara who told me the story of when, after having lived in New England for twenty years, she was referred to as ‘one of the new people’ by a woman in her Vermont village. This hasn’t happened to me here.

My neighbors are Johnny and Bea, Netto and Sally; Sue, Eddie, TJ, and Susan and I thank God everyday for them. Individually and collectively, they create a comfortable neighborhood which feels safe and clean. I try to help out when I’m not screaming at javelinas that devour my geraniums.

In the blazing ruins of the recent financial meltdown, too many people the country over have lost their homes. My heart goes out to them. Home is where we heal, where we make love, where we break bread together after the day’s work is done. You can’t live like that in a Chevy van. And just try having a really good cry in a condominium- it doesn’t work. The neighbors will think you’re being knifed, and they won’t even pick up the phone. It’s called urban disassociation. I once sat on the third floor ledge of a motel in my underwear for two hours, drinking Blatz bottled beer, watching the traffic below and nobody told me to put my pants on. But I digress.

Yes, dear- a house can be a living nightmare. The water heater will disintegrate and flood the basement; the wind will blow so long, shingles on the roof curl and peel like orange skin. Those wacky weeds growing everywhere are the invasion of an immune fungus. Floors creak and faucets squeak. If your place was built before 1920, like mine, you can forget about having a dinner party of more than, say, two people.

But it is home. It’s mine. One day when I grow up, I’ll have a real dining room, but for now the bamboo bar and sexy swag lamp will stay.

Here’s another, more current restaurant story: we stopped into Joe’s Broad Street Grill awhile back- this is a diner where the only two waitresses are both named ‘Tina’. A brand new server- her first day- came up and took our order and me, the wiseacre, said, “Oh, I’ll bet your name is Tina, right? Hahaha.”

She turned and replied, “Actually, my name is Trina.”

She then smiled demurely and went to fix our iced teas.

As the dramatist John Howard Payne said in the early 1800’s,

‘Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,

Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like Globe.’

Um, I mean, home.