There’s Someplace Like Home
On yet another trip to Michigan, I find myself in an Air B&B that makes me cry. Not because it’s awful—quite the opposite. So many things here remind me of my late husband, and the life we spent together, that I’m grieving.
The owner of the house lives here—but rents it out while traveling. Hence, personal touches abound. Like an intriguing library, titles that heavily overlap with the book collection my husband and I shared. Favorite authors from my youth—Barbara Kingsolver. Tom Robbins. Feminist titles, classic literature, and even fiddle and mandolin music books. I could stay for weeks and just read.
I tried Entitled: How Male Privilege Hurts Women, by Kate Manne. Brilliantly written. But I was nauseated by the first chapter—couldn’t stomach reliving the Brett Kavanaugh confirmation. So, now I’m reading A Field Guide to Lies: Critical Thinking in the Information Age, by Daniel J. Levitin. It should become required reading for high school graduation. (Quick! Before the Department of Education disappears).
In the living room there’s a shelf with games—each and every one a game once found in our household and played repeatedly. Now my grown kids are avid gamers—able to decipher complex strategies with lightning speed. Games are good for brains.
There are photographs everywhere—presumably of the owner’s travels. Elephants, cheetahs, and zebras, oh my! The bathroom photos are my favorite: All depict some beautiful body of water, and several include a dog. The same dog. Most likely the homeowner’s loyal friend. And if there are two things that bring peace to my often lonesome soul, they are water and dogs. I especially love bodies of water that appear to go on forever. I’ve lived on several, and I intend to reside near one again. Lake Michigan qualifies. (I don’t think my canine pal, Tootsie, has ever seen such big water.)
My darling husband and I never took our kids on safari, but we did move around and live among cultures different from the one we were born into. All three of our kids graduated high school in multi-lingual ceremonies standing with Native American classmates in traditional tribal dress. Since then, my daughters have traveled the world, gone to university in other countries, and one now lives Down Under. I miss my kids when we’re far apart, but I love that they’re accepting of people that aren’t just like them.
It would appear the owner of this house is comfortable among other cultures, too—and maybe bilingual, judging by the library. What a beautiful thing for the well-being of humanity. Perhaps bilingualism should be required of candidates running for national office. In fact, if all Washington politicians—including the president—were required to dwell, at length, in “foreign” cultures maybe terrorizing immigrants wouldn’t be the popular national pastime it currently is.
In the dining room, there’s a globe into which visitors can stick pins to mark the places they came from. I tried to stick a pin into Arkansas, but my thumbs weren’t strong enough. Besides, NW Arkansas was already represented.
There are pins in countries around the world. Even a pin for Melbourne, Australia, where my daughter lives. Doubtless, Daniel J. Levitin would point out that I have no way of knowing who installed those pins. But I like to think people really came from afar. Perhaps this makes me a prime example of a potentially unreliable purveyor of facts.
Nonetheless, I’d like to challenge the axiom, “There’s no place like home.” I don’t live here, but this place feels like home to me. And I’ve stopped crying.