home. (May 9, 06)
My story is fragmented because that's how it was told to me. It leaves the experience of searching. These stories have been passed on like oral tradition. There is a fluidity of time and space for a person who is constantly moving, searching and becoming.
North America has an ugly history of hatred. When the colonists (my ancestors) arrived in the New World there was a cultural war. The wilderness vs. the chosen people. The Christian way of life vs. the hedonists, the savages way of life. Hey wait, I'm one of the chosen people carrying the word, fighting against the wild of the wilderness.
My people were Dutch, they still are. My people came to America to escape religious oppression. They arrived in the land of the free and became the Oppressors. They desired order and Christian communities. They believed that things that were wild or restless were evil. They did not share any spiritual connection to the land. Only that it was a gift from God to use, own and cultivate.
But 200 years later, I am the one who is restless.
I am the one who feels totally disconnected to my people. I am the one who wishes to reconnect with the land, to the spirit of the earth. I'm not a damn hippy, but I prefer to support the earth, to be reconnected to humanity.
I too have seen the wide-open space of this world, and I've never been able to see Minneapolis the same. I have experienced a life-long imagining. I've returned to a new and larger sense of the continent.
I have placed my footprints all over the world, but I still have a sense of nostalgia a longing for home. I'm still looking for refuge I am seeking safety. But I don't know where this home is. I'm not sure what makes home.
In 1977, the house that I spent most of my life was born. 710 87th Lane. I was a terrible two-year old, rummaging through the large logs that scattered all over the front yard. My dad was frugal. No, he was cheap. He hired cheap labor and built his dream house. My mother was 8 months pregnant with the twins during that scorching summer, and my sister and I couldn't wait to get into the house.
That house. Our house. Possessive of the house, the backyard that we spent so many days in, the path through the woods that we made walking to and from the library all summer long, the mulberry bushes that we gorged on each summer, the lilacs that acted as a fence to the east. We had one acre of land, our land. We played, we loved, we buried, we created, we grew. It was ours.
Inside the house, my parents always had an eclectic style of decorating. My father was a hunter, so the walls were covered with random dead bodies and heads of his latest kill. The bear clinging to the living room wall was always a focal point. Its eyes were made of marbles and it watched everything. Its tongue and teeth were always in the attack mode. It never knew that it would spend the next thirty years on a wall. It was always alert, watching, observing, and ready to attack. Us four kids mimicked its behavior.
My mother loved her antiques, and random heirlooms, and anything that was lovely and eccentric. So our house was filled with clutter and nature. An enormous log house in the middle of the suburbs, bursting with old paintings, dead animals, and kids. But this was home. The house always creaked when someone walked upstairs, it always smelled like the logs, even though I spent most of my life smoking in it. It's gorgeous.
All family gatherings took place at this house.
Most of the parties in high school were thrown at this house.
It has seen a lot of love, and a lot of hate.
My parents decided to sell their house this past summer. The four of us kids were really traumatized by this. But, but, it's the log cabin. It's our lovely and unique home. We understood though. I was living in California at the time. My younger sister and her husband were living in Vermont. Both my brother and my older sister were settled with their own families in their own houses. In fact, all four of us kids owned our own houses, so it seemed silly to be caught up by the sale of our childhood Mecca. But no one was as affected as my dad.
After many discussions, and my sister's husband's transfer to the ER at hospital in Minneapolis, my sister and her husband ended up buying the house. I was relieved. There was a lot of pressure for me to purchase the 6 bedroom, 3 bathroom home on a one-acre lot in the northern suburbs. No. I may move back to Minnesota, but I have no desire to move to the suburbs. So Emily and her husband bought it. She gutted it, and turned it into a chalet a chalet that was furnished by Pottery Barn. But I'm glad it stayed in the family. I am not sure that anyone would have been able to handle getting rid of it for good. It took my dad more than six months to come visit my sister and her husband. His house that he built was his land. It's no longer my house. It's no longer my place. From the outside, it looks a lot like home, but it's not. My bedroom has been turned in the Den, walls have been ripped down, and anything that reminded me of my old home is gone. But I suppose that comes with age.
Now, I don't know where my land is.
I'm not married. I have no children. If I were to die today my assets would go back to my parents. It's bizarre to be 30-years-old and still consider your parents to be your family. Most people I know are married with children and they have created their own families, their own homes.
So I wander.
I have left my footprints all over the earth. I see these journeys as just as important as the old neighborhood: 710 87th Lane, the giant log cabin, the smell of wood and lilacs, the woodchucks in the background my brother used to capture. The trees that belonged to each of the four kids. We named and loved those trees. My tree, Elmer, has been cut down either disease or development I'm not sure that it matters.
I suppose that I can feel my place is in Southern California, or maybe London. London was the first place that I felt free. That was the first adult home that I had. Every time I return to the concrete madness of London, the cluster of Indian restaurants, royalty and trendy shops, it feels like home.
After traveling the world, I have never been able to look at my small little life in Minnesota the same.
So I moved to Riverside, California. This is another home for me. I think it always will be. It is home surrounded by Moreno mountains, constant smog, and the forever present sunshine. In California, I saw the sunsets. I felt free. I celebrated myself and sang myself. I learned to embrace life, diversity, education and most importantly myself.
I bought my first house in Riverside. It was a three-bedroom, two-bathroom townhouse with a 2-car garage and a pool in the front yard. It wasnt ideal. It wasnt perfect, but it was mine. My garden became my therapy. That house was always bustling: Painting. Drinking wine. Hosting parties. Grading papers. It was mine. It was first taste of ownership over the land. Maybe I am adhering to my ancestors ways. Driving around Los Angeles this past December I was reminded of the warmth and the diversity of that land, the fast-paced anonymity. As I drove to Huntington Beach for one last glimpse of the ocean before I got back on the plane to go home, I was reminded of the smell of cat piss in the streets, the mountains, museums, everywhere. Three miles from the coast it mixes with the salt in the air. It's suffocating and then it's released when I reach the shore.
Currently listening : Retrospective By Indigo Girls
North America has an ugly history of hatred. When the colonists (my ancestors) arrived in the New World there was a cultural war. The wilderness vs. the chosen people. The Christian way of life vs. the hedonists, the savages way of life. Hey wait, I'm one of the chosen people carrying the word, fighting against the wild of the wilderness.
My people were Dutch, they still are. My people came to America to escape religious oppression. They arrived in the land of the free and became the Oppressors. They desired order and Christian communities. They believed that things that were wild or restless were evil. They did not share any spiritual connection to the land. Only that it was a gift from God to use, own and cultivate.
But 200 years later, I am the one who is restless.
I am the one who feels totally disconnected to my people. I am the one who wishes to reconnect with the land, to the spirit of the earth. I'm not a damn hippy, but I prefer to support the earth, to be reconnected to humanity.
I too have seen the wide-open space of this world, and I've never been able to see Minneapolis the same. I have experienced a life-long imagining. I've returned to a new and larger sense of the continent.
I have placed my footprints all over the world, but I still have a sense of nostalgia a longing for home. I'm still looking for refuge I am seeking safety. But I don't know where this home is. I'm not sure what makes home.
In 1977, the house that I spent most of my life was born. 710 87th Lane. I was a terrible two-year old, rummaging through the large logs that scattered all over the front yard. My dad was frugal. No, he was cheap. He hired cheap labor and built his dream house. My mother was 8 months pregnant with the twins during that scorching summer, and my sister and I couldn't wait to get into the house.
That house. Our house. Possessive of the house, the backyard that we spent so many days in, the path through the woods that we made walking to and from the library all summer long, the mulberry bushes that we gorged on each summer, the lilacs that acted as a fence to the east. We had one acre of land, our land. We played, we loved, we buried, we created, we grew. It was ours.
Inside the house, my parents always had an eclectic style of decorating. My father was a hunter, so the walls were covered with random dead bodies and heads of his latest kill. The bear clinging to the living room wall was always a focal point. Its eyes were made of marbles and it watched everything. Its tongue and teeth were always in the attack mode. It never knew that it would spend the next thirty years on a wall. It was always alert, watching, observing, and ready to attack. Us four kids mimicked its behavior.
My mother loved her antiques, and random heirlooms, and anything that was lovely and eccentric. So our house was filled with clutter and nature. An enormous log house in the middle of the suburbs, bursting with old paintings, dead animals, and kids. But this was home. The house always creaked when someone walked upstairs, it always smelled like the logs, even though I spent most of my life smoking in it. It's gorgeous.
All family gatherings took place at this house.
Most of the parties in high school were thrown at this house.
It has seen a lot of love, and a lot of hate.
My parents decided to sell their house this past summer. The four of us kids were really traumatized by this. But, but, it's the log cabin. It's our lovely and unique home. We understood though. I was living in California at the time. My younger sister and her husband were living in Vermont. Both my brother and my older sister were settled with their own families in their own houses. In fact, all four of us kids owned our own houses, so it seemed silly to be caught up by the sale of our childhood Mecca. But no one was as affected as my dad.
After many discussions, and my sister's husband's transfer to the ER at hospital in Minneapolis, my sister and her husband ended up buying the house. I was relieved. There was a lot of pressure for me to purchase the 6 bedroom, 3 bathroom home on a one-acre lot in the northern suburbs. No. I may move back to Minnesota, but I have no desire to move to the suburbs. So Emily and her husband bought it. She gutted it, and turned it into a chalet a chalet that was furnished by Pottery Barn. But I'm glad it stayed in the family. I am not sure that anyone would have been able to handle getting rid of it for good. It took my dad more than six months to come visit my sister and her husband. His house that he built was his land. It's no longer my house. It's no longer my place. From the outside, it looks a lot like home, but it's not. My bedroom has been turned in the Den, walls have been ripped down, and anything that reminded me of my old home is gone. But I suppose that comes with age.
Now, I don't know where my land is.
I'm not married. I have no children. If I were to die today my assets would go back to my parents. It's bizarre to be 30-years-old and still consider your parents to be your family. Most people I know are married with children and they have created their own families, their own homes.
So I wander.
I have left my footprints all over the earth. I see these journeys as just as important as the old neighborhood: 710 87th Lane, the giant log cabin, the smell of wood and lilacs, the woodchucks in the background my brother used to capture. The trees that belonged to each of the four kids. We named and loved those trees. My tree, Elmer, has been cut down either disease or development I'm not sure that it matters.
I suppose that I can feel my place is in Southern California, or maybe London. London was the first place that I felt free. That was the first adult home that I had. Every time I return to the concrete madness of London, the cluster of Indian restaurants, royalty and trendy shops, it feels like home.
After traveling the world, I have never been able to look at my small little life in Minnesota the same.
So I moved to Riverside, California. This is another home for me. I think it always will be. It is home surrounded by Moreno mountains, constant smog, and the forever present sunshine. In California, I saw the sunsets. I felt free. I celebrated myself and sang myself. I learned to embrace life, diversity, education and most importantly myself.
I bought my first house in Riverside. It was a three-bedroom, two-bathroom townhouse with a 2-car garage and a pool in the front yard. It wasnt ideal. It wasnt perfect, but it was mine. My garden became my therapy. That house was always bustling: Painting. Drinking wine. Hosting parties. Grading papers. It was mine. It was first taste of ownership over the land. Maybe I am adhering to my ancestors ways. Driving around Los Angeles this past December I was reminded of the warmth and the diversity of that land, the fast-paced anonymity. As I drove to Huntington Beach for one last glimpse of the ocean before I got back on the plane to go home, I was reminded of the smell of cat piss in the streets, the mountains, museums, everywhere. Three miles from the coast it mixes with the salt in the air. It's suffocating and then it's released when I reach the shore.
Currently listening : Retrospective By Indigo Girls
posted by Annette Schiebout at
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