When the Party Has Ended

An unsheared Christmas tree in New York State circa 1951 displays the natural form of the tree's branches. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

      One year in the mid-80's when my parents were living temporarily in the Detroit area and their house in Tennessee was left empty for much of the time; my wife, daughter, and I stayed in that house during our Christmas break between show tours.  My parents had come in for Christmas and everything was festive for a week or two, but then my father had to return to his job and the house returned to a state of seeming emptiness.   It was that feeling of a houseful of hustle bustle and then all of a sudden everyone is gone and all seems as though the festivities had been a mere illusion.

     We left the Christmas tree up in the living room because we liked the way it looked.  By the middle of January it seemed odd to have the tree up like that, yet it was like a reminder of the fun we'd all had during the holidays.   Since we'd be leaving in mid-February to start rehearsals for the new show, I wanted to somehow cling to that last remnant of being "home" before we embarked on several month of living in motels.  Not that I disliked the road life.  I liked it a lot.  It was just that homey normalcy of being rooted in familiar surroundings that I guess I wanted to hang on to as long as I could.

       This limbo feeling of emotions lingering between the excitement of fun activity and getting back into a routine is something I've frequently experienced in life.  It might be the aftermath of having people over for dinner, a big party, or visitors from out of town spending the week at wherever I was living at the time.   The rush of the festive metamorphosed into the mundane is a bit like day turning into night or coming back to a quiet house after being in a busy environment.   The feeling can be relaxing or even lonely depending on ones state of mind.

         After a party that I've hosted has ended, I'll usually go around the house cleaning up a bit depending on how tired I am.  Maybe I'll leave some music playing, but I might tend to turn down the stereo and play calmer more reflective music--some might even think sad.  Or maybe I'll turn on the television if I'm not ready to go to bed yet.  Still the socializing can be draining.  The seeming emptiness of the house after a houseful of people has departed can be almost a feeling of shock in some ways.  Often it's a feeling of relief.

            Eventually the trash needs to be taken out.   The extra chairs rearranged or put back into storage.  The floors might need vacuuming or swept, but that will usually wait until the next day.  And if the Christmas tree is still up, well maybe it might stay if it makes me feel better to see it.  After all, it's not doing any real harm if it's an artificial tree that's not going to dry up and catch fire or anything.  It might look weird if Christmas is long past.  Then again it might just become part of the room and I won't even notice it except for the times I look at it and remember the good times gone by.      

             Have you ever left up holiday decorations well after the holiday has passed?    Do guests ever help you clean up after a party or a visit?    What is the strangest thing you've ever seen in someone else's house that seemed out of place?  

Putting the Past Behind Me

     It's been over a week since I arrived at my mother's house in Maryville, Tennessee.  I've spent a lot of time just staying at the house, sometimes reflecting on memories while at others just basking in the aura of this place that's been in our family for nearly 50 years.  And now we're trying to sell this place.

     Since I've been here we've spent most of our evenings just sitting on the deck that overlooks the expansive back yard.  With the approach of evening comes a hypnotic chorus of cicadas soon joined by a myriad of crickets and other critters whose names I don't know.  The insect soundtrack provides a steady background for our discussions of stories dredged from the past and the uncertain plans for the future.

       Getting rid of this house is the main thing on all of our minds while being the topic we hope might disappear as it becomes resolved in the simplest manner.  I'd be happy if the house just stayed with the family and we could have summer evenings like these recent ones from now until...

        Then again, maybe we need to let go of this past.  Leave it to our memories.

         My time here is running out.  I need to leave this coming Thursday and I haven't gotten anywhere near what I had hoped to have done.  I've got some boxes packed up to take with me but there are so many things to do here.  Once I leave, I may not be coming back unless I absolutely have to.

      I want to come back.  This is part of the story of my past.   This house is like part of my life museum.  No one else knows all of the stories here.  Not the stories I do.  And I don't even know all of the stories.  This is a house full of stories.

      This week I will be leaving, but I will never truly be gone.  Or should I say I will take pieces of this house in my heart.   The crickets chirp into the the night as I drift into sleep.  Those crickets.  They know something.  Perhaps they know everything.

         I know nothing at all.

Home (Elements of Memoir) #AtoZChallenge

         "Home sweet home" is that oft said wistful mantra that can take us back to good old days and love of family.  Of course this is not the case for everyone.  For some the house they lived in was more like hell than a home.  Whatever the story to be told, there is usually some kind of semblance of home in the story setting.   In some cases home is the story.

         The smells, sounds, and emotions that we relate to our different home experiences can evoke many memories for ourselves and our readers.  No matter what memoir story is being told it is important to get the home setting right--the rooms, the yard, the exterior, and the street where it sat or even still sits.  A rich palette of word descriptions should be used to paint a clear picture for memoir readers.

         If you are going to write the story that puts the reader inside your skin, make sure they feel at home as well.  

         When you read a life story do you like to know the details of where the person you are reading about lived?    What are some memories of home that you feel are important?    Is the house where you spent your childhood still accessible to you?

Tennessee Stomping Grounds

English: Olympus 4.0 Megapixel 3x zoom Digital Camera. Taken in 2002 in Cocke County, Tennessee. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

         Thomas Wolfe is famously attributed to the saying "You can't go home again" which was taken from a posthumous novel of that name.   Most often the saying is more in reference to the fact that you can't recapture the place and circumstances of your memories.  We can fondly remember, but usually we are disappointed and disillusioned when we visit home hoping to find things like they once were.

        The fact is that things change--people, places, and all that our memories embrace.  Those things might be there in one manner of speaking, but rarely can we completely recapture the old feelings or experience the same sensations like they once were way back when.

        It's been 23 years since that last time I lived in East Tennessee and that was for only a few years having spent a previous 13 years on the road with a traveling show.   When I left my parents' home in 1975 for a life of travel it was not so much a severing ties as it was a beginning of new chapters in my life.  It's a decision that I'm glad I made, but my leaving created a gulf in the familiar relationships I had enjoyed during the years previous to that departure.

        As time passed, my old friends established newer relationships with people I did not know.  Some of those friends went on to get married and start families. Others moved away like I did while a few passed from this life.  Over time even the face and spirit of my home town changed as more people from other places moved into the area, old landmarks disappeared, and newer places were built in their places.  Highways were improved and bypasses were built.   The small town that I had once known took on a greater urban feel.   Where once I could be out and about and almost have a guarantee of running into someone I knew, now I might be out all day all about town and never see an old familiar face.

         Change is to be expected over time and probably a place would not be economically healthy if that change didn't occur.  Geographically my old Tennessee stomping grounds still exists on the map, but for someone who grew up there it is barely recognizable in many ways.

         Friends grow older and gain new responsibilities with careers, lives, and families.   I don't feel quite as comfortable just dropping in on many of them for fear of intruding or interfering with their busy schedules.  There are still a handful with whom I maintain fairly regular contact, but rarely do I actually see them.  The old Tennessee stomping grounds holds a fond place in my memories.  However, these days when I visit East Tennessee in some ways I almost feel like just another one of the many tourists who pass through there each year.

        I would imagine that if I still lived there I might feel a lot different about the old homeland.  But I don't live there anymore.  And I don't know if I ever will again.  Not that I wouldn't want to.  It's just that things change and sometimes going back home can never recapture the memories of what once was.

        Are there places from your past that you've gone back to and they just felt different to you?   Do you currently live in a place where you grew up or that you came back to after an extended time away?   How do you feel about the Thomas Wolfe observation that "you can't go home again"?

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There's No Stuff Like Home Stuff

Austell, GA, September 30, 2009 -- Household possessions and debris are placed at the curb of this flood affected home following the September severe storms and flooding. George Armstrong/FEMA (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

A house is just a pile of stuff with a cover on it.
~~George Carlin

       My posts over the past month have taken a look at material possessions and those collections we amass over the years. George Carlin humorously calls these things "stuff" and I think this how most of us often think of the possessions we accumulate. It's a bunch of things to which we have attached some sort of significance. Sometimes we remember why we kept things and at other times we may look at something only to think to ourselves, "Why did I keep this?".

       A house is a cozy place that provides us shelter for our families and a place to keep our possessions until we figure out exactly what we are going to do with them. And more often than not those things stay where we tucked them away until they get shuffled around to another part of our house. Or perhaps to another house that we move to. Downsizing can be a lot of work that can tax us mentally and emotionally.

      However, that being said, the stuff in our houses can provide as much comfort as meatloaf and mashed potatoes or whatever food it is that makes you feel safe and warm inside. The words "mine" and "ours" give us a sense of identity and security. Even homeless people are often seen pushing carts of stuff or toting burdens of material goods on their backs. They too want the security of ownership, but they lack a house in which to put their property. Those of us with houses can have more stuff. The bigger the house the more potential stuff we can own.

     The beauty of habitating in some sort of dwelling is that we can find many places to put our aggregations of life. Or is that the ugly side that shows a certain sense of greed and love of materialism. Whatever the case may be, at least we have options of putting our things into rooms, closets, cubby spaces, or stuff-holding components disguised as furniture. These things may be neatly placed with organized intent, tossed in randomly, or a combination of the two storage styles.

     The place we call home is the place where our stuff is. To lose one's home through fire or natural disaster must be devastating for most people to whom this happens. On the other hand maybe it's a feeling of release--liberation from the possessions that hold us hostage, keep us prisoner. I don't want to ever know the feeling of having my material life wrested from me. I want to keep the stuff that helps make my house my home.  Or at least keep it until I decide what I'm going to do with all of it.

     Do you ever feel like a captive of the things you own? Does ownership of material goods help you to feel better about yourself and provide you a sense of comfort? Do you tend to have more things if you have more places to put them? Have you ever experienced a tragic loss of possessions? What happened and how did you feel in the aftermath?

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