Home

Something a friend said the other day made me reflect on the idea of "home". This friend had just moved here from another country with her husband, found an apartment and was busy unpacking and trying to fit her past life into her new space. As new as she was, with boxes still unpacked, furniture still unbought, she said in an email that she and her husband got "home" about midnight one night. Even being in a new city, which she had previously only visited upon occasion, with no other family in the country, she called her new apartment "home".

I think a lot about the whole notion of home, and what it means to different people. What makes a place "home"? When do you feel "at home"? Is home truly where the heart is? I grew up in one place: Denver, Colorado. I didn't leave, other than for vacations, until I went away to college. Since graduating, I have lived in thirteen different homes. Those thirteen homes were in seven different countries. My son, who is now thirteen, lived in eight different homes, in five different countries, before he became a teenager.

Very often, in my peregrinations, I have felt very alien, out-of-place, whatever the opposite of "feeling at home" is. And then one day I realize that, when I wasn't paying attention, this strange new world -- whether it was Warsaw, Palermo, Rangoon, Havana, Lima, or San Jose -- had somehow become home. That transition from feeling like a stranger in a strange land to someone who belongs can come from showing a visiting friend or relative around and realizing you know what you're talking about and where you're going. It can come from finding a pediatrician, a dentist, a car mechanic, a new group of friends...from forging a support structure in an increasingly familiar environment.

Feeling at home, well, at home, is easier. I unpack boxes -- often knowing from the smell as I open them what country the contents are from -- uncovering all the treasures and memories from my previous "homes", then create a new home by combining all those treasures in new ways, on new walls, in different rooms, constructing a new life. I have become very adept at this process, particularly if I have seen photos of my new house in advance; I daydream a lot and figure out where a lot of our things belong, and then it is just a matter of unpacking them and putting them in "their place". I own no home but, in a very short time, can turn an empty, rented house into a place where my family has lived, perhaps, for generations.

My Father

My father is one of the most wonderful men I have ever known. This is his story. He was born in Colorado Springs, Colorado in 1926 to a working class family. He lost his mother when he was a toddler, after she gave birth to his little sister. His father died from tuberculosis not long after. He and his little sister were raised by his grandmother, in a converted chicken coop on the property of relatives. His grandmother was a hard woman not averse to taking a *switch* from the peach tree outside to give these *no 'count young'uns* a good thrashing.

This harsh environment forged a young man with a good brain, a big heart, and great strength of character. The first in his family to go to college, there he fell in love with the beautiful, dark-eyed classics professor, who would later become his wife and my mother. From college he went on to Yale Law School, an unimaginable accomplishment given his background.

He went on to work as a lawyer in Denver, but never forgot those who were less fortunate. Walking to work, he would encounter someone begging for money to *buy food*. Knowing what the money would probably go for, but seeing the need for nourishment, my father would instead take the time to buy some food for the unfortunate individual. He also turned his talents and good will to help the community at large, by serving on the school board, by volunteering his time and efforts for organizations aimed at ensuring our nation lived up to its promise to all citizens.

Several years ago, his dark-eyed bride was diagnosed with Alzheimers'. His wife/my mother is very frail now, thoughts of Homer long vanished, incontinent at times, and often not recognizing the man she wed over 50 years ago. He is her sole caregiver since my sister and I live far away. He tends to her with enormous patience, keeping the photo of her as a beautiful young woman at hand to keep in mind always his love and commitment during these tremendously difficult times. Although my sister and I aren't there, he is surrounded by friends and neighbors who cherish his friendship, admire his fortitude, and enjoy his company.

My wonderful father: devoted husband, cherished friend, talented orator, generous spirit, committed, strong, funny, remarkable. I love you, dad, and feel tremendously fortunate to be your daughter!