Going Home

Various locations

What does home mean to you? The primary definition in the dictionary is “the place where one lives permanently, especially as a member of a family or household.” Sadly, the second definition is “an institution for people needing professional care or supervision,” as in an old folks home. And then to many there is the ultimate “going home.” Honestly, I can’t see that as home in any positive sense, although apparently deeply religious people do. Well, them and the cast of Rocky Horror Picture Show. I never really understood that movie’s peculiar ending either.

I went on this month-long roadtrip (well at least the first part of the trip) to return my mother’s ashes “home” to Michigan. My sister and I first scattered some of her ashes in Owosso Michigan, off a quaint stone bridge in a lovely historical setting, a sort of oddly magical place. Curwood Castle Park in the heart of Owosso has a beautiful yellow castle – yes, a castle -- standing on the banks of the Shiawassee River. This historic home was built by the town’s famous writer James Oliver Curwood in the early 1920s.  

I am not sure how much of an actual home coming it was, in fact I am not even sure that my mother ever returned to the place of her birth. Her early history had been so strange, having found out sometime in her late 50s that the story she had always been told of her adoption was a complete fabrication made it all the stranger. Dying declarations of family members can be insensitive and pointless. Although, Owosso was never truly home to her other than her actual birth, I did feel peace when we spread her ashes there, just in a different way. At the very least, her ashes were carried downriver and eventually out to Lake Huron, which is an awesome journey.

Mom grew up in the tiny town of Cedar Lake Michigan. My sister and I stopped by our grandparents’ house, which although still standing had clearly been neglected for years. Memories flooded back as we stood across the street from the old house. We recalled how when we visited there as kids, our dad would always find a reason to “head into town” to neighboring Edmore. As kids we thought Edmore must have been quite far away as dad always seemed to be gone for a good part of the day. It wasn’t until we were both adults that we found out that Edmore was only 10 minutes down the road, and it was his love of drag racing that was really taking him into town. I still have one of the trophies he won.

We decided that the current owners of mom’s childhood home might not take kindly to a couple of women knocking on their door seeking to spread some ashes, even if it was only at the pond at the back of the property. Something about the “no solicitors” and “weapons on property” signs on the front porch seemed a bit unwelcoming. So, we decided instead to visit the local camp meeting grounds to leave mom’s ashes there. (Trust me, she had left her mark in that town more than a three-quarters of a century earlier, so a little more of her couldn’t hurt!) Thankfully, camp meeting was not currently in session, having occurred in June. A nice stand of tall pines with a patch of Queen Anne’s Lace growing underneath made for a perfect spot for mom’s eternal annual camp meeting; she always loved camp meeting. At least she would be “home” one week out of the year.

One of mom’s favorite places in the world was my Aunt Pat and Uncle Frank’s cabin at Crystal Lake Michigan. For as long as I can recall, she went there almost every summer to bask in the sun, go out on the boat (water skiing when she was younger), but mostly to play cards and laugh in the evening with her dear friend. Aunt Pat was not really related but was my mom’s best friend since second grade. I remember going there when I was younger, and my kids have also been there several times. It is an easy place to slip back into in summer.

My mom and I had spread some of my dad’s ashes at Crystal Lake almost two decades ago, so it seemed right that some of hers go there too. My sister and I scattered some in the garden area by the gazebo and in the small pond under the trees close to the lake. We figured that from there they would run out into the lake which seemed like a pretty cool forever home. Instead, they floated down to a log on the bottom of the pond and sat there, shimmering in the low light. I guess she wanted to stick around a little longer.

Our last planned spot for ashes was at the house she and dad lived in the Chicago suburbs. It was their first real home after they married, a little brown craftsman house that sat at the end of a cul-de-sac next to a forest preserve. I have fond memories of a lovely childhood there with a rock garden out back, wheeling my calico cat Musette in a doll buggy around the front porch, and playing checkers with my grandpa who lived for a while in the upstairs apartment. But my favorite thing about that house was that it was on the end of the street, which meant that the ice-cream truck turned around in our driveway. That all but made one a princess as a 6-year-old! At the entrance to the forest preserve is a huge elm tree that has been there forever. It has a perfect spot for a forever view of home.   

One morning at my tiny house cabin in Hot Springs South Dakota, on my last day there before heading on to Colorado, I encountered a beautiful sunrise while enjoying my morning coffee at the picnic table out back. Actually, I had seen the sunrise every morning I stayed there, and each seemed more lovely than the last. This one was extra special though because I watched a little sparrow carrying food back to her birdhouse atop the fencepost by a stand of pines. Although my mom had never been west of the Mississippi River, except for one flight to visit her sister in Oregon, I suddenly thought how much she would love this place.

I remembered touring a tiny house manufacturer in her tiny town back in 2019. She insisted that they wouldn’t mind at all if we just showed up to look around. She was right, a guy was thrilled to show us their workshop, a cool bus conversion project they were currently working on, and several completed models they had sitting out front. I laughed when mom said she could see herself downsizing to live in a tiny house. I laughed because she had supposedly been downsizing for the past two decades and her home still felt crammed full of stuff to me. I went to the car and got out the box of ashes that had been riding shotgun with me since leaving Chicago. I spread her ashes at the end of the fence row under the birdhouse. I like to think this was the home she had always dreamt of, and she had finally downsized enough to make that happen.   

I have never been strongly attached to place. I have places that I love, but that is plural and for me none has really risen to the level of “Home.” About the closest I ever came was at Burning Man where they greet you at that gate with “Welcome Home.” The second (and third) times I went, it did sort of feel like coming home again. Even so, it was more of a feeling than the place. Maybe that is why I enjoy solo travel where I can try on many “homes” – like the cowboy whose home is where he lays his hat. Home, to me, is any place where the hugs abound and peace is found! Sometimes that correlates with where my family people are, other times, not so much, if you know what I mean.

I see home as a feeling, your spiritual home, a place where you feel that you belong. To take that philosophical notion one step further, home is a vital sensitive core, as in “the truth struck home.” Home gives one a feeling of being safe, secure, loved and accepted. A feeling of truth. It's where you don't have to define yourself, show your strengths, or explain your responses. Home is where you can simply be yourself 24/7, and I even had a little trouble with the 24/7 thing out there at Burning Man. While I love that today is the day that most folks are hitting the playa after a two-year hiatus, I don’t really have a single bit FOMO going on this year. The timing just wasn’t right for me this year, particularly with what has happened in the last two years – I have had my own fires to burn, and some to put out. Maybe this trip helped a little with that.    

 

If you came to this first through the blog, know that there are more photos on the related Facebook post 

Google Album for these photos: https://photos.app.goo.gl/2YpZbDFnEiDxv6e89

Footnote: I think that part of the allure of Burning Man involves fire and keeping the home fires burning, be they real or spiritual. Research by anthropologist Polly Wiessner has shown that once our ancestors learned to control fire, in addition to using it for cooking, they began to use it for storytelling as well. By extending the day, fire allowed people to unleash their imaginations and engage others with stories which, in turn, fostered deeper social connections. I hope that the stories I have shared in this blog connect with you. That is my playa gift to you all this year. Happy Burn!