Home… with a little h
Growing up in a small town, the question ringing through my mind as an adolescent was not whether I would leave, but when I would leave, and where I would go.
Sure, there were people who stayed—those who married their prom date, who secured high paying jobs at the mill out of high school, who purchased a piece of land from their great-aunt and built a cabin. But my teenage jobs, complete with ill-fitting polyester uniforms, were hardly an anchor for me, let alone the fact that the nearest university was four hours away.
It was as such that I ended up, at nineteen, in a basement suite 700 kilometres away from home, with a tomato box as a television stand.
On a bit of a whim, paired with a friend’s empty promises, I’d selected the city the opposing 700 kilometres away from my hometown than the metropolis the bulk of my friends had selected. A city I had never visited before two weeks prior to my move, classified ads in hand. As I drove into the city that first night, the orange glow nearly blinding me, my head out of the window like a dog’s, trying to absorb every billboard, every storefront, every street sign, it occurred to me that this would never feel like home. I felt too distracted by everything, too uneasy, too stimulated, too alone. I was used to quiet streets and loud homes, not loud streets and quiet homes.
It turns out I am the adaptable sort. I learned to haul groceries on the bus, to start conversations with strangers, to go to movies alone, to watch people without worrying about whether I recognized them. I bought paintings to put on my wall to make it feel less beige and more distinctive. And, quickly, it stopped feeling like I was a small town girl who’d lost her map, and began feeling like home. Maybe not Home with a capital H, but still like someplace comfortable and normal.
I didn’t stay in that basement suite. I moved apartments, and then moved cities. I’ve gone from a cookie-cutter apartment in the suburbs to a quirky suite in a heritage home to a spacious flat off a main street. Yet, something happened in that subterranean basement suite with the bathtub spiders—I realized that home is more portable than I thought, something that might have taken me longer to figure out had I went to the same city as everyone.
September 22nd, 2008 at 3:26 am
It’s funny - even though I lived in the same house in the same town until i was 23 and have only lived in two places since, i totally believe that the idea of home is pretty portable - because I consider the room in the flatshare I have stayed for five years now my home more than the house I grew up in. And I’m sure wherever I end up ultimately will be somewhere I consider home too. I hope.
September 22nd, 2008 at 7:19 am
Totally agree. Home is what you make it to be.
September 22nd, 2008 at 9:39 am
Since moving away from home one of the most surprising things I’ve found is how I can live in one place that feels like home, and then pack up and move to another place that feels nothing like home! It never occurred to me that could happen, but I’m glad I’ve found somewhere that works now & I hope you have too!
September 22nd, 2008 at 12:06 pm
i moved out of my parent’s home at 17, and into a new city, in a different province, where i knew NO ONE. i remember sitting on the floor crying on the second night, thinking this will never work, and my parent’s house will always be my Home (capital H).
i’m now 21 and moved myself around 6 times within 2 years.
but i managed to make each place i lived in my home.
thinking back now, i’ve grown up a lot since being the 17 year old crying on the floor of her new place, without even realizing it.
September 22nd, 2008 at 12:59 pm
isnt it amazing what taking a chance can do to your life’s perspective?!
September 22nd, 2008 at 1:24 pm
I think it is so wonderful that you took the road less traveled. Now your adventures are all yours. You don’t have to share them.
Life is so much better when its not so cookie cutter.
September 22nd, 2008 at 5:05 pm
I moved a LOT as a kid, so it was always hard for me to get comftorable and feel at home. It took me leaving my dad’s house to realize home is where I make it. and to appreciate all the things I’ve gotten to see during all those moves. I don’t feel as suffocated in the burbs out in good ol’ KS
September 24th, 2008 at 4:13 am
Jeez how much do I wish I were one of those people for whom home is portable and place doesn’t matter?
Answer: tons. Tons and tons and tons.
But I’m not.