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?

Weirdo

Weird City (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

        To be called a weirdo is not something to which most of us aspire.  When I was a kid I didn't necessarily think of myself as a weirdo nor did I want to be thought of as one.  But I really didn't think that much about it either.   After all, I was just a kid and being weird is often synonymous with being a kid.  Kids are mostly in their own world of imagination and from the standpoint of an adult they might seem a bit la-la--you know--out there so to speak.   Adults expect silliness and naiveté from children. I delivered on a regular basis.

       There were plenty of other kids whom I thought were a bit odd, but I didn't usually count myself in that category. Oh, there were those times when I reveled in doing weird things. But that's when I was on a mission of strangeness. Whether it was to annoy, shock, amuse, or for whatever other reason, when I was trying to be weird, I was happy if I fulfilled that mission which I had initially set out to do.

      For the most part though I was a normal child. I made decent grades and the teachers always had good reports to send home about me. That's mostly been me even into adulthood. Employers liked me and I always got promotions. I've typically had good relationships with people--other than certain people who were really weird in kind of a bad way.

        And yet I see myself as a bit on the weird side.   Not wacky weird or scary or like some kind of a pervert or anything like that.  My neighbors and people who I encounter in public probably rarely give me a second look because I appear to be so damn normal.  When I'm in Walmart no one would ever think to take a picture of me to post on the internet because I look so--well--normal.   That's me--Mr. Normal Average Guy.

         It's some of my tastes I guess that put me out there some.  I like classical music, seventies rock, and jazz influenced pop music from the 20's and 30's.  My interest in films is eclectic though I have a strong interest in the films of Fellini, David Lynch, and old film noir.  I often read things that most people I know don't read.  Give me a thin crust pizza with onions, jalapenos, and anchovies and I'm in food heaven.

         I'm not saying that I'm the only one in the world who likes the things I like, but often I feel in a distinct minority regarding my tastes.  Some people think I'm weird because of what I like.  Or they at least think I like odd things.  I know there are plenty of people who do like what I like but I rarely seem to encounter them.  My tastes don't bother me, but often I have no one with whom to share what I like.  I never have anyone to discuss Fellini movies with me.  When my pizza arrives you can bet that I'll likely be the only one eating it if I've ordered my favorite.

         Being different is fine with me.   I've not only gotten used to it, but I'm a bit proud of it.  A lifetime of being a bit of a weirdo is something that one usually can adapt to.   After all, we're all just a bit daft in our own ways.  Aren't we?   Well, don't just stare at me like I'm weird or something.  Come on and admit it:  You're a bit of a weirdo too--in one way or another.

          I think its kind of the human condition.

         Do you think you're weird?   What do you think comprises "weirdness"?    Who are some weirdos that you have known?

Related articles

• Re: David Lynch films - Monarch? Illuminati?
• Being Weird (in a Culture of Sameness)
• My definition of "Different."
• Beautiful weird and feeling blessed

Cleveland, Ohio

Cleveland Skyline (Photo credit: digipixguy)

        If you've seen the movie A Christmas Story, that is in some ways what my first years of childhood were like.  Like in the narrator of the story I too lived in Cleveland, Ohio--the city of my birth.   I had a sister a year younger than I and my family lived in a working class neighborhood where houses were small and packed neatly together.

         My father worked as an accountant and my mother stayed at home with my sister and I and had dinner on the table every night when my father came home.  My parents rented the house where we lived.  The back yard seemed big to me then with a weeping willow tree and a flag pole in the center.  There was an American flag neatly folded in the front room closet but we never ran it up the flagpole because the flag belonged to the landlord and wasn't ours.  I didn't question much about this--I just knew that the flag was there wrapped in brown paper and that flagpole was in the middle of the yard.

         In the living room we had a television with a small screen, but in the mid-fifties I guess everyone who had television sets had sets with small screens.  There was also a framed glass covered picture of two swans floating among the lily pads in a pond.  I was intrigued by the work of house art and would often contemplate it.  It looked old, but I knew nothing about it.   None of the furniture in the house was ours and neither was the swan picture.

         We seemed to have frequent visitors at our house.  My parents welcomed relatives, neighbors, and entertainers--mostly jugglers.  Since my parents worked as a professional juggling act on weekends and occasional week nights they were often visited by other jugglers, entertainers, and one of their booking agents, Sally West and her husband Duke.  I typically enjoyed these visitors because they talked about things that seemed interesting even though much of the time I had no idea what they were talking about.

        I spent my first seven years living in and around Cleveland.  We probably lived in the house on West 143rd Street for about four years, but it seemed like a long time to me.  Of course, I had little perspective then.  Everything seemed like a long time.   And the house, the people, the city all seemed old to me then.  But I was a child and everything seemed old.

         And now from where I am and look back on those days, it seems like a  long time ago.