My Hometown by Marie
As soon as I hear the “Where…” , anxiety rushes in. I’ve learned from experience that not having the ‘right ‘answer creates problems. People don’t want you to be ‘interesting’ or ‘weird’. They want to be able to file you in the folders of their mind discreetly and easily so they have a point of reference from which to judge your actions. People love to judge on place.
I first opened my eyes in a place with beaches, warmth, and never-ending swamps. Water fell from the sky in half-day, seasonal downpours. Like clockwork, heat turns to rain making everything steamy and unbearable save for the scent of Cuban beans simmering that hint at the pleasures in life to come. Home? Within a year my family headed to the cold northern state of Michigan.
The water here falls from the sky in snowflakes and it makes for great fun sliding down hills with my brother in those precious moments when sibling rivalry hasn’t taken over. Detroit has urban things like the Henry Ford museum where my classmates and I saw the chair that President Lincoln was sitting in when he was shot.
“Miss Jones, is that his blood?”
“No, it’s the pomade they used to put in their hair.”
“Sam, what’s pomade?”
“I dunno. I think it’s blood.”
“Yeah, me too!”
“Ewwwwww, blooooood!”
Michigan also meant family as once every couple of months my Mum bundled us into the car for the three hour journey “up north” to see relatives and, from my perspective, go to the lake. Lake Huron was a wonderland in those days with giant plaster animals on the beach containing slides and swings and firemen’s poles. There were precious Petosky stones to search for which I didn’t recognise as fosilised coral until I was in high school. But the lake was best in winter. In the daytime people would ice skate along the shore and at night it became a game to spot the glow of the ice fishermen’s lights in the little temporary shelters.
We also explored the woods which were full of exciting things like bear poo and half-eaten prey of some bird or animal. We never played cowboys and Indians…only Indians. We really wanted to believe that we could live like native people and survive in the wild, but in reality we were fortified by pierogies and potato salad (family recipe)until the sun went down and adults called us in.
After those days we lived in the tornado alley towns of Omaha and Kansas City. Scary days when the sky went black, sirens went off, and we hid in the basement with Mum and Dad listening for the telltale train sound. It wasn’t like this in Little House on the Prairie. But there were blizzards which seemed fun for children, but not for my parents who busied themselves stocking up the survival box as they did the hurricane box in southern Florida. Same cans of Spam and stew for different potential disasters.
And there were other homes in other states every two years on average. By 18, the pattern had set and I carried on to the UK, Vietnam, Japan and New Zealand after that. Of course, Lake Huron doesn’t freeze anymore and our house in Miami is long gone thanks to a hurricane. Sometimes I’m surprised at how much focus there is on place when defining home. Home is much more than place to me.
Hey Shanti! The picture and story go great together. I Like it.
Hola Marie!
What does grade 3+ mean?
I loved your post. The bottom line is that home is wherever you’re happy, not necessarily a physical place but a spiritual one. I can relate to this now that I have lived in more cities in the last five years than in the first 32 years of my life!
And I agree that “people love to judge on place.” And being South American, boy, have I been judged in Texas!
Your descriptions are vivid and take the reader to all those places, especially those seen through kid’s eyes. I like the way you evoke your childhood.
And last but not least, you made me crave pierogies!
Ana
PS: I just started the course myself and posted my first assignment. Could you return the favour and review it, pretty please? http://anina.matadoru.com/2010/07/23/discover-southern-ontario/
Gracias
This is lovely stuff Marie! I really struggled with this assignment when I did it, because at the time I wasn’t feeling at ‘home’ in the city I was living (London). The feelings of childhood you evoke are beautiful. I haven’t really seen anyone write a hometown piece from this perspective – it works really well!
Thank you for your comments everybody and for taking the time to visit my blog. It’s great to get your feedback.
Ana, the “Grade 3+” bit was because writing this was like those essays you had to do in school about your sumer holiday or your hometown. I think you’d normally write “by Marie aged…”, but I wasn’t that keen on doing that since I’m no longer aged under 10! So I went for a random school year plus “+”, but I totaly agree with your question as it didn’t work at all. I just hope I got the story across better than I did the title:-)
“People love to judge on place.” They certainly do. I think it boils down to ease and laziness. And today’s instant gratification culture gives us the sense that we don’t have adequate time to understand someone’s “where” story fully.
As for Lake Huron, it’s one of those places I don’t know. But when I hear the word, I think cold, north, and on the edge where the Earth begins to bend. Apparently, that’s changing.
And I love pierogies
Maybe if we’d grown up in the same country I’d have understood the reference? Don’t worry it happens all the time between My hubby and I, half the time we have no clue what the other is referencing!
Yes, Lake Huron…very cold! But pierogies do help.
Thanks for visiting:-)
Lovely piece – it is so hard to explain what home can mean when you’ve had so many. Judging on place is something we all do; I look at people with one home and am torn between envy and bafflement.
“torn between envy and bafflement”
Yes, exactly!