Last night I got home from a long road trip for work. I was gone for the whole work week, had to change hotels, touched down in three different airports along the way, and ate my meals exclusively in office cafeterias, airport lounges, and restaurants I’ll probably never visit again.
I know this kind of travel is the norm for many people, but I don’t see how they do it. The transient lifestyle really wears me down. I don’t get my exercise, and I don’t sleep very well, either. My normal circadian rhythms are thrown totally out of whack, and fatigue accumulates like a heavy snow falling on a rooftop.
By the end of the week, as I don my last clean clothes, I see that every other shirt and garment in my suitcase appears to be permanently wrinkled. My eyes feel dried out, my hands feel bloated somehow, and I’m ready to get home come hell or high water. As I race through the last airport concourse trying to catch a quick connection I just hope that weather, or mechanical difficulties, or air traffic control don’t stop the homeward momentum. I’m ready to get a kiss and hug from Kish and a happy tail wag from Kasey.
I never sleep so soundly as I do when I return home after a long business trip.
At what point do you suppose that you first grasped the idea of “home”? I imagine it was one of the first concepts I ever understood, and probably one of the first words, too. It was a specific, physical place, to be sure, but it was a lot more than that. It was where the most important people in your life lived, and you developed happy feelings that you associated with the special combination of that place and those people and your things — the sense of where your life was centered, and of being where you belonged.
And as you grew up, and your family moved from one house to another, and went on vacations together, the concept of “home” became even stronger, because you realized that your home was not just one place, but could change from one city to another even as you left your friends and favorite places behind, and was more than just the temporary location of your Mom and Dad and brother and sisters. And after such a move to new place, when the settling-in process finally ended, at some point you thought to yourself that your new house had become less strange and “finally felt like home.”
The home-shifting process continues, for many of us, as our lives proceed and we move through college and venture out on our own. At some distinct point the concept of “home” morphs from the place where your parents are to the place where you and your spouse and your family have established their own lives. The legal concept is called domicile — the location where you have established a permanent residence to which you intend to return, whatever your temporary movements might be. Courts trying to determine domicile evaluate evidence like where you are registered to vote, where you pay your taxes, and where your kids go to school, that seek to capture, to the maximum extent that bloodless legal “factors” can, the emotional element of having found a welcome place where you have sunk down roots.
Those of us who have been fortunate enough to have grown up with a solid sense of “home,” with the warm, deep feelings of belonging and physical security and personal value and countless other attributes that come with it, can’t fully appreciate how having a home has shaped our lives and personalities. And we can’t really imagine what it must be like to grow up without that essential emotional and physical center, or to someday lose it entirely and become “homeless” — a powerful and terrible word, when you think about it.
Yesterday, as Kish and I drove back from a vacation on the coastline of Maine, the pull of “home” became irresistible, and what was supposed to be a two-day drive became by mutual agreement a 17-hour, roll-in-and-unload-after-midnight rush to get back to our little center of the world. And when we finally made it, and were greeted by a small, happily barking dog whose tail was sweeping the floor like a metronome set at maximum speed, we once again were reminded of what “home” is really all about.
I enjoyed our brief trip to San Antonio, but it’s good to be home. Why? Among other things, I confess that I have grown accustomed to the everyday amenities in our house.
Take the shower, for instance. Our bed and breakfast room had a bathtub shower with an overhead nozzle and a square metal apparatus from which the shower curtain was hung. You turned on the shower, climbed in, and pulled the curtain closed around you.
It had a distinctly continental look to it, and was very quaint and charming — but it felt precisely like showing in a telephone booth. My head stuck out of the top, making me feel a bit like Gulliver in Lilliput, while at the same time, the clingy shower curtain established an ever-present physical boundary. It was tough to maneuver soap, shampoo, and washcloth in such tight surroundings, and good luck to you if you dropped the soap while lathering and had to sink down inside the shower cubicle to try to retrieve that slippery item.
So forgive me if I’m looking forward to this morning’s visit to the familiar shower stall here at home, where the shampoo bottle and soap dish are in their expected places and a little elbow room may be found.