Where is home?
We were in Chicago recently on vacation. During one of our many days of exploring the city, we took a train ride to Oak Park, Illinois. The village on the west side of Chicago was home to famed architect Frank Lloyd Wright. Our mission was to tour his home in Oak Park, now a museum, as well as a handful of nearby homes that he designed for others.
In our 15 minute walk to Wright’s house we cut through a neighborhood park – an idyllic, quiet and green, homey and lush, peaceful and inviting park where we saw families enjoying a gorgeous fall day. For a brief moment I became wistful. Without slowing my gait, I looked around, breathed in the sunshine and asked myself: “Am I where I’m supposed to be?”
I will admit that vacations frequently do this to me. Maybe it’s a grass-is-always-greener thing. Maybe I just want to do a comparison test. Maybe deep down inside my soul has a restless streak. Am I where I’m supposed to be?
My husband Steve and I, back then domestic partners, moved to the Dallas-Fort Worth area in 1994. A new job brought us here from Miami, where we both grew up, and we quickly settled into a rented apartment in Northeast Dallas. We bought our first house seven years later. It was a quaint and picturesque split-level structure that we absolutely loved despite a few obvious problems, particularly the weather perils of a reverse grade lot. But it was our first shot at homeownership and to this day we both still hold a special place in our hearts for that warm home.
Life took a few topsy-turvy turns – new jobs, financial burdens – and we sold the house in 2014. We decided to downsize and try townhouse living. Still in Dallas, and a mere 8 minutes from the split-level abode, we settled into a townhouse community. We dove into the constraints of homeowner’s association rules (and fees!), and tried our best to make that cute townhouse our home. We remodeled the kitchen and bathrooms, painted the walls, strategically hung up artwork to make the most of the high ceilings. And yet, something never seemed right. In my heart of hearts, I never quite felt at home.
Three-and-a-half years later came more changes. Because you know, the biggest constant in life is change. We both got new jobs, and mine was now 50 miles away. The commutes were killing me. I love my job, but truth be told I didn’t quite love that townhouse.
In late September 2017, we said goodbye to Dallas for good and moved into a 1966, mid-century modern styled ranch house in Hurst, a mid-city between Dallas and Fort Worth. Suddenly I was about 25 minutes from work and back in a detached house. Logistically, the scenario was perfect.
But there was something deeper. I fell in love with this house. The way the sunlight bathes all the rooms. The tranquil nature of the home, even with a major highway merely two blocks away. There are the mature trees surrounding the house, and the super cool rectangular glass panes that give the living room so much character.
Mostly I love the way the house makes us feel. Both of us – and it was Steve who first saw the genuine potential – feel so at home here. We feel more at home than we did even in our quaint split-level. If home is your sanctuary, our spirits always yearn for the rejuvenation.
Am I where I’m supposed to be? Home is where the heart is, as the cliché goes. Steve is by my side, and that surpasses any combo of four walls, a floor, and a roof. But home is supposed to be a respite. It’s supposed to be a place where you recharge and let your imagination run free. It’s a building that breathes and speaks and nurtures.
On our last night in Chicago, I was anxious. I was anxious to come back to our 1966 mid-century modern styled ranch house in Hurst. Home was calling me. It was calling us. It missed us and we missed it. It was time to come back.
Steve and I have said more than once, almost daily actually, that this will be our last home. This is it. This is the one. We certainly can’t predict the future, but we can envision it. What I see is two men growing old blissfully in the comfort and care of a house in Hurst.
So, where is home? It’s exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Mario's Musings 
Some of us have restless hearts of pass generation of immigrants or gypsies… whatever it is.. we are always looking forward to a change the moment we feel just sightly challenged. That comes from a person that has seen 41 moves in a 2.5 years period. I made it to the point I had my boxes numbered and knew exactly what went into them. I felt an overwhelming sense of control when I finally moved and threw the boxes away. Then two years later, I was moving again, and then again… nowadays, I hire professional movers !
I never say this will be my last home, everyone knows a box/urn will be out last home. Let life move you, respond to the changes. Remember that the mouse that doesn’t move to find the cheese is the one that dies of starvation.
On the other hand, I have to come visit you and see “your last home”.
love you,
Esther
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Thank you for reading, Esther. First of all, come on over! Second, I think that finding “home” is really all about the inside and not as much about the outside. I have stepped into stunning houses, immaculately beautiful, and then stepped back out knowing I could never live there. It doesn’t call me. It doesn’t speak to me. Some of us find the home that speaks to us, some of us don’t. That’s OK. Home is really a state of mind, more than anything. We tend to manifest that state of mind in structures with four walls, a floor and a roof. But, again, it’s all about the inside not so much the outside. Hugs!
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Home. Where is it for me? I find myself calling three places “home”. I was born in Niagara Falls, NY and lived in the suburbs until I graduated high school. My parents still live in the same house (during the summer months) in Youngstown, NY. In fact, I am driving there from Baltimore this weekend to see them. To me, that will always be “home”. Now let’s talk about Baltimore, home number 2. I live in an old stamping factory originally built in 1897 in the Federal Hill section of the city where classic rowhouses, corner bars and restaurants surround me. I can walk to everything. It’s epic Northeast city living. I live here because my job is here. At age 50, I am now at home in Maryland in an one bedroom loft apartment with just the essentials of living. Now home number 3 is in sleepy, Bedford, TX just up the road from Hurst. That’s where my wife, kids, dogs, and my worldly possessions are. Home number 3 is most special because that is where my favorite people are, human and non-human. I only get to come home to home number 3 every other weekend. It’s not enough, but it is what it is. I am not sentimental to all of the old homes/structures I have owned and lived in. They are just buildings. They will all have new owners some day. They will all be changed. What makes home special is the people you share them with, the memories, the things you can’t describe in a real estate ad. I hope to sell home number 3 in Bedford in 5 years and move to a new home in Colorado. A home on a mountain, with 6 Huskies and one long, winding driveway. When my time is over, take me home, back to Niagara Falls, NY, where it all began. That’s the final “home” run. I enjoy your writings, Mario!
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I commend you so much, Tim, for being able to work and live away from your wife and kids as you do. I don’t think I could do that unless it were a dire necessity. We do see things a little bit differently when it comes to the power of home. But one thing is for sure – we both yearn for a home filled with those we love. Thank you for reading!
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I always love your posts, Mario, for the way you just open yourself up. Sometimes it’s very personal and private, sometimes more everyday thoughts, but always relatable. Like the subtitle, everyday thoughts really are universal truths.
My house is my third Texas home, and I have realized I always buy the same house – open design, high ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows onto a large, private backyard. I would feel happy anywhere with my husband, but this is the style of house where I’m most comfortable, so I’m most at home when the combination is there.
I also love your comfort with talking about Steve the way you do. Those references to “my husband” and “two men growing old” as naturally as you do, if done for wider distribution, as Mayor Pete does with Chasten, would go a long way toward making more people comfortable with same-sex marriage. As far as it has come, you well know it still has a long route ahead.
One of these days we must get together and relive the old days when we were young… or at least younger than we are now!
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Thank you, Glenda. You truly have captured the essence of this blog. It is my outlet to share thoughts and stories – almost always personal. I no longer have any reservations about being open before an audience. Maybe it’s age, or maybe it’s the medium, or maybe it’s just that life is too short to hide. Anyway, thank you again for reading and sharing your thoughts with me.
PS: I’m more than happy to take a jaunt to Blanco or meet you halfway one weekend and see each other again. I would love it.
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I love this idea! I must admit that all things remind me of songs and this reminds me of Talking Heads’ Naive Melody (this must be the place), Such a beautiful song for such a beautiful idea! Home is the place where there is a vibe that exists on a spiritual level….kind of like your phone connects to the wi-fi when you roll up in the driveway…this must be the place! Home is where you make your own nest with those things that are important to you: your spouse, your pets, art work, photos, furniture, etc. ultimately when you walk in the door you feel ” wow its good to be home”. Its great to visit other places and have other adventures, but when you cross the threshold that is your home all is right!
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I could not agree with you more, Jim. Home is your nest. Very well put. It is where you always want to return.
Oh, and by the way, love that Talking Heads tune. You are like me. Everything in life reminds me of a song. Thanks for reading.
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