It’s that time of year, when goings happen. There are so many graduations with young people moving onto the next chapter of their lives. Several friends are moving—Dulcie just moved into a new house, my best friend, Janene, is moving from Tennessee to Texas, and Regina is moving from Italy to New Zealand soon. Moving has always fascinated me, I suppose because I’ve never moved much.
My family lived in the same house my entire life. Mom and Dad still live there in that little pink brick house nestled between two hills and a creek in a row of similar houses. My first move was from that house to a college dorm, but that didn’t really count because I came home holidays, summers, and every weekend. My first real move was to an apartment I lived in for nine months the year I got married. That was a huge, unsettling shift for me. After I graduated college, my husband and I moved again. This time, one hundred miles away from all I had ever known to a bigger town with busy highways I had a hard time navigating. I cried a lot. The ground beneath me felt so unstable with no friends or family close by. I had my husband’s family, and I loved them, but it wasn’t the same.
We lived with my husband’s grandmother on what felt like the family complex. His mother and aunt were right next-door, and Mamaw had just lost Papaw, so the landscape there had changed for everyone. I only knew I had lost my home. Soon we moved to an apartment. That’s where I began to find more stable footing. I had my own space. We found a church to attend where there were other young couples our age. Having friends helped steady the still shifting landscape.
A couple of years later, we bought a house not far from that apartment. We lived there eight years. Our son was born there. It was small and on a busy road. That scared us with a little active son who needed more room to play and grow. So, we moved far, far, far away from that house to a slice of heaven on seven acres. An old farmhouse more than a hundred years old with a barn, a smokehouse, a hen house, a falling down garage, a greenhouse, mountain views near the lake, and peace. It was far from work and church and friends, but we liked being away from it all. Our son was never that crazy about the place. He didn’t like being upstairs in bed while his dad and I were downstairs. He didn’t like being outside. He never was an explorer. He enjoyed organized sports, and when he wasn’t doing that, he wanted to be inside.
We’ve been here sixteen years and have no real plans to leave. Sure, we talk about it occasionally, but in the end, we stay. Our son has grown up and just graduated college. He’ll move on soon, but I’m still here. It feels like things move around me. Over the years, things and people in our lives have changed, moved and shifted. Friendships became more difficult with the distance and the children who demanded our time. People have moved out of the town where I live and on, but I stay in the same place. I watch programs on television where others leave all that’s familiar to explore new jobs and cultures in foreign lands. I watch while tucked safely into the home I’ve settled in. My roots are here. I enjoy the views out my windows. I’m settled here. With so much movement around me, it’s comforting to know that view outside my window doesn’t change.
This is the nature of my life. People leave. I stay. The movement outside my space of peace makes me feel off-balance, dizzy sometimes. It’s unsettling, but I stay . . . at home, sheltered from the movement and the going.
I can smell this place you call home. Having moved all over, I yearn for the feeling you have. I hope to find it here.
Dulcie, I think you will. Hope you don’t mind my mentioning you 🙂
Beautiful blog, Deb. Having moved many more times than I would have liked, I can truly relate.
Thanks, Marge!
I like what you said about the view outside your window doesn’t change. This makes a person think about their own space. Thanks for sharing.
Vickie, Thanks for the comment. We’d love to hear about the view out your window!
Debbie:
For the first 18 years of my life, we moved every two to three years. When my father would say the words, “Family meeting,” we’d sit down and say, “Where are we moving now?
So I never lived in any one place for any length of time. I’d finally make friends and poof! off we were to another location, and the cycle began all over again.
But I’ve lived in this house now for 21 years, longer than any place I’ve ever lived. And I SO understand your feeling of “home.”
What a great blog! It hit me in the gut in a way you’ll never realize. So thank you!
Thanks for the comment, Trish! I was always fascinated with people moving and experiencing new things. I always felt left behind, but after awhile, I look around and think, why would I ever want to leave here? East Tennessee with a view of the mountains right outside my living room window, it’s a great place to live!
Nice blog post. Touching. I’ve moved so much, but I’m in what I call my final home, swearing I won’t move again . . . but you never know.
Glad you liked the post, Hppe! Thanks for visiting the blog.
I grew up in a military family. I used to hate moving, always leaving friends, always limited in what I could take with me. But as time went on I began to realize that this was an important part of my growth and education. Probably an important part of becoming a writer. The part of your story that touched me where I live is the part about being the outsider when you did move. I think most writers know that feeling. Some make peace with it, others struggle with it, but either way they become astute observers. They find ways to observe objectively. And that’s essential. Whether you’re writing about hobbits or housewives, real life informs your fiction.
Great post, Deb!
Kathleen–I’ve always struggled with being an outsider. I always craved acceptance-still do. But as you know, writers have that personality that most don’t get. So I do observe and imagine, a lot. I think that’s what trained me to be a writer 🙂 thanks for the observation!!! Great insight.
We moved a lot when I was a kid and I think that’s part of my nature of reclusiveness – why being alone doesn’t bother me so much. We were never a place long enough to cultivate long-lasting friendships. The longest place I stayed was the place that never felt like home, ironically! Now, I am in a little log house in the mountain cove – back where I belong and near where my roots are – and this is my “last place.” 😀
beautiful post.
Kat, Thank you for your post. Your spot in the mountains sounds beautiful. So many writers are reclusive. I know we spend a lot of time alone writing, so the vocation lends itself to that, but it’s the interaction with people that makes writing and characters we create so rich. So, I’ve always wondered at how good writers, and I know you’re a good writer, can be truly reclusive and create great work. I’d love to hear your thoughts on this. Thanks again for your post!
Debbie
I spent many years working and living among “Lots of People in the ‘Big City’ in South Louisiana, so that created a foundation of “people watching” — now, I do leave the little log house sometimes, but not as often as I used to. Good thing nature plays a bit part in my work, too 😀
When I am out and about, my brain clicks and whirs and snaps – like a brain-camera — but, again, it also has all that stuff stored from all the years of working and living around people!