Reconnecting

So much of my vision, my thought, is backward looking at the moment.
We’ve spent the last two days making our way from NYC to Columbus, Ohio, where we’ll be picking up our recently purchased Honda Element - an Ebay purchase no less. No shit – we bought it while having a cone in our favorite ice cream spot.

The route has taken us first to northwestern Pennsylvania for a stay with Bob Bednar, my mother in law’s cousin, at his 200 acre hunting lodge. Great place. Bob and his two brothers built the place up themselves over the years and use it as a gathering spot, their special place in the world. I admire that. One of the brothers, Albert, has passed and is buried on the property.  To have carved out this corner of the world with your brothers and have it serve as a touchstone and affirmation of your connection to one another. That tugs at me.

It makes me think as well, on the outset of this journey that has us leaving the home we know, the people we love, going further away from much of our family. Does the person who lives in many places actually have no place?

After spending the night at Bobby’s lodge we continued northwest toward a little Ohio town on Lake Erie called Conneaut where my mom’s eldest brother, Tio Jorge lives with his wife Patti. I hadn’t been there since my sophomore year in high school, but there it was, just as I’d remembered. So great to visit with them, and I thought to myself, as I had with Bobby Bednar, why hadn’t we come to visit them before this?

We only had a portion of the afternoon to spend with Jorge and Patti, and it felt much too rushed. We had to make it south to pick up the car, otherwise I would have loved to stay the night.  Being in their home made me think of the history in a place.  All six of their children were raised in that house, and now it’s just Jorge and Patti.  I wondered why they don’t sell it and move to Cleveland where their son Frank lives.  After all, they could get a nice little condo, have less to take care of, be closer to grandkids.  Patti loves theatre, she could become a member at the Cleveland Playhouse, one of the best regional theatres in the country.  Seems like a no brainer from that aspect.
But then I got to thinking about what the walls in that home contained.  Memories.  What is a staircase to me is a memory of a fall.  A yard is memories of first steps.  A kitchen table memories of breakfast together.  How hard it must be to think of letting that go.  Sure the memories come with you, but not the physical manifestation.  Again, touchstones of a life lived. 

We reluctantly got back in the car and headed down to Columbus, where we picked up the first car we’ve owned in eight years.  Then it was off to hook up with my cousin Helen, Jorge and Patti’s daughter, for dinner, which wound up being a stay in her beautiful home she shares with a sweetheart golden lab in this picture perfect neighborhood that is the very definition of Americana.
Again we were the recipients of generosity, Helen letting us take over her home for a night, and had yet another opportunity to reconnect with someone I really didn’t know that well. I enjoyed it even more than expected.

I feel as though we are setting sail on this journey and along the way we’re checking in with people and they’re saying “This is family to me. This is home to me.”

Samuel Beckett said “Home is people, not places.”  As we travel to a new place, it’s nice to be able to see people and their places.