There Is No Place Like Home

I must confess complete agreement with the familiar adage, “There is no place like home.” Home is, of course, much more than a structure or mere lodging. At its best, “home” should be a retreat from the world and a place that both nurtures us and fosters our aspirations. It should provide a support system that allows us to both rest and grow as needed. Home should be the place where we can remove the mask that we wear to the rest of the world and be our most authentic self.

Our home, somewhat shaken by the addition of our adult son, has gone through some times of conflict that have ultimately led to growth for all three of us--my husband, my son, and myself. The adjustment of living together again after so many years apart have led to periods of misunderstanding and frustration. But what began as a necessity has eventually become, to my amazement, a blessing.

There is the advantage to me of having my son’s advice regarding the type of computer that might be best when I decided to acquire a laptop. He has, as an extension of his computer knowledge, transferred all of my contacts to my I-phone, making my life so much more manageable. He was also able to quickly advise me that having my own printer was worth the time we had spent attempting to access a printer that is incompatible with my new laptop.

There is also an even greater gift in the support my son has provided to his nephew, my grandson, whose parents are in the midst of a divorce. Uncle Matt is yet another man in my six-year-old grandson’s life, other than Daddy and Grandpa. Uncle Matt is the man who has the time and energy to play “Shirts Off Ping Pong,” a lively game played, yes, you guessed it, without shirts for those “manly” men—Uncle Matt and my grandson who participate in the game.

So aside from the much-appreciated technical and family support that we have come to enjoy over the past two years, I was surprised to see another reward this morning. After having reached the conclusion that my son had little regard for his parent’s daily lives, and was merely tolerating us until he could afford to move out, he surprised me with a small but important gesture that I saw as a hopeful sign of his maturity and caring.

As I was backing my car out of the garage this morning to attend a class, my son motioned to me to stop, and brought me my cellphone that I’d unintentionally left on the charger. In my mind, a mere “Thank you” was insufficient for Matt’s attention to my oversight and taking action to assure that I had my cell-phone (my “life-line” really) on a particularly hectic day that included driving thirty miles north to attend class, eventually picking up my grandchildren, and then returning home. The cell phone represented my communication line with my grandchildren’s father and the means to call for assistance if I had had car trouble. Just about the time I’d given up on his caring about me, Matt reached out and did something thoughtful for me.

Perhaps this time together hasn’t been a waste at all if I can gain a few memories such as this.

"The Walton's"

Fifty-some years ago, I watched a television series based on the lives of a Depression-era family, “The Walton’s.” I’m sure I was attracted to the show mainly because the weekly episodes had so much similarity to the stories my mother told about her own experiences as a child of the Depression. Even though I knew that the program, “The Walton’s,” was probably an overly-idealized representation of the times, I watched the show each week and found myself longing for that wonderful era, for such understanding parents, for wise grandparents, and a houseful of brothers and sisters.

My mother’s stories were usually happy and it seemed to me that “The Walton’s” story lines merely confirmed her own childhood memories. One of her stories I heard most often was about the years that my mother and two of her sisters sang together in small country churches in southeastern Ohio as “The Scott Sisters.” She remembered that singing for a church meant more than merely entertaining; it also meant that her entire family ate well that day because of the carry-in dinners prepared by the ladies of the churches where they performed. But there were other stories, the sad ones, about the death of four little brothers and sisters during the influenza epidemic of 1918 that spoke to the harsh reality of those days.  

So why is it, despite evidence to the contrary, that we hold onto the impression that “the good old days” were so good? Why do we long for those days and think only of the charm of an earlier time without looking more truthfully at the unhappiness that was bound to have been as much a part of everyday life? Why do we romanticize those days when the truth is that there was poverty, hunger, and disease that we somehow manage to minimize if not overlook?

I think that this exaggerated view of families in the past serves to damage, to some degree, our current notions about what a family should look like and act like today. I’m sure that when we invited our son Matt to move back home two years ago, I was hopeful that our family would be somewhat like the days when our sons were in high school and the house was always a little chaotic with their friends running in and out, the phone ringing all the time, and all of us actually interacting with each other on a daily basis. I’ve probably idealized those years, too, but wouldn’t Matt’s move back home be a lot like the Depression-era families that included not just two, but sometimes three generations under one roof? Oh, and to think of the wisdom of the elders that was passed down to the younger generations--at least in the narratives of “The Walton’s.” So why did it come as a surprise to me that our son’s return home and combining of two generations did not bear any resemblance at all to the family that I had envisioned?

Why is it that I cannot see in my son, the musician, a young man who may have actually inherited from his grandmother the talent to be a successful singer and song-writer? Singing before an audience was for my mother a way of helping to feed her family. But, unfortunately, I see my son’s interest in music as a waste of time because it brings him no monetary reward or even a free meal.  Preparing for “open-mike night” only means time spent practicing instead of earning money or studying for his degree. It means listening to the strumming of chords while I’m trying to write a blog for my professor. It means, at least on one occasion, asking Matt—not kindly at all--to please find another place to play so that I could take the university’s math placement test, a timed exam, because I needed, “just forty-four more minutes! That’s all I’m asking for!”  

No, we are not “The Walton’s.” And Matt, the song-writer, may actually have as much or more talent than John-boy, the aspiring author who later wrote and narrated the “The Walton’s” series. But I am certainly not “Momma,” that patient and wise woman who skillfully handled the problems the family encountered in the weekly episodes. No, my friends, we are not “The Walton’s.”

A Letter to Boomerang Mom

Dear Boomerang Mom,

It seems to me that it is time for us to review some of the expectations I had when I moved home two years ago.

Yes, I know that I made quite the point of rejecting the notion (abhorrent to me to this very day!) of living in the basement. As I said at the time, I feared that I had become such a cliché to all of my friends because of my need to move back home that I found it utterly unthinkable that you would even suggest that I take up residency in the unfinished portion of the basement. You did not seem to understand at all my request to occupy the guest room on the main level and it was only under duress that you finally allowed me to do so. It grieves me to think that I even had to ask for this small alteration in your plans.   

While I do understand your need for me to remove my laundry from the dryer so that you may continue with your household duties, it seems to me that you have more than adequate time to carry my laundry to my room for me. I believe that with a bit of effort, you may be able to work this into your schedule.

As far as coming and going at all hours, this is the result of living on my own for more than eight years. I do not mean any disrespect, but have found it impossible to alter my previous lifestyle. I answered to no one, and I continue to reject any thoughts of being accountable to you, Dad, or anyone else. I am, after all, thirty-two years old.

When you asked last Saturday afternoon that I play my guitar at another time since you were taking a timed math test on your computer, I was quite put out at the way you phrased your request that I play my guitar elsewhere. Consideration and respect are absolutely essential if we are to live together peacefully.

And I would like you to reconsider my request (yes, the same request I’ve made twice before) for my own small refrigerator in my room so that I do not have to walk from one end of the house to the other for a beer. This is just a small matter of convenience that I’m asking for. I am not asking for a complete kitchen, just one small appliance.

Your son,

Matt