Reflections on ‘Home’

It was at 11:00 at night as I was laying on a borrowed, creaky air mattress in a mostly empty house, that I began thinking of our new home, one we’ve only been in for a week, as our home. There are a lot of quotes out there about what “home” is or what it means to be “home.” 

There’s a saying often heard in military life:

“Home is where the military sends us.”

Most of us know this. We move every two or three years, sometimes more frequently, adding new rugs, new curtains, selling old things that might not fit, and hanging pictures to make our borrowed housing feel like home.

Other things that we adore but don’t fit may go into storage, while some homes require us to buy things to fill space, and we secretly hope we can fit them into the next one. Our home isn’t permanent, but temporary. It moves as we move.

“You can’t go home again.”

But there’s another saying in the civilian world: “You can’t go home again,” popularized by Thomas Wolfe and his novel of the same name. After returning to my original stomping grounds, I find that statement to be true.  

Shortly after arriving back from Germany, mid-PCS, we had a to-do list longer than my arm. After running errands with my husband and having to make a stop at the DMV—what I like to call the great equalizer—the idea of not being able to go back home became very true.

Over the last three years we spent in Germany, my hometown changed.

A lot.

What used to be farmland or open fields was now home to shopping centers, strip malls, gas stations, and new restaurants. What used to be a 15-minute commute was now almost twice that. Attempting to take a shortcut to avoid traffic left me fumbling to find a landmark to know both where I was and which way to go. After three wrong turns, we finally reached our destination. This happened more than once in our two weeks back. 

My childhood home was also greatly changed. I barely recognized the exterior. I joked with my parents that, had I been the one to find the house, I would have driven right past it. Gone was the 1960s green, replaced by a crisp beige. In place of the clunky, dark garage door stood a bright white door with windows to let in natural light. Some new furniture, fresh hardwood, and a completely new bathroom (built by my brother) made walking into my childhood home a completely new experience. It didn’t feel like my home; it was as if I never arrived home. 

“Home is where you lay your hat.”

But I found one more saying to be true: “Home is where you lay your hat.” Or in this case, home is where your suitcase explodes throughout the room. Despite all the changes, there was still familiarity.

My favorite restaurants and hangout spots were still there, and my favorite menu item was still as tasty as ever.

My parents’ home was still warm and inviting, the click of dog nails on hardwood and the midnight pitter-patter of cat feet could only be heard when the stomp, stomp, stomp of three rambunctious children’s feet were quietly tucked in their beds in what used to be my brother’s room.

The walls were still bursting at the seams with the love and adoration my parents had for me, their grandkids, our family members and friends.

The bed linens still smelled the same. My dad was still grilling outside any chance he got. We still sat down to eat together as a family.

Children’s toys were still scattered on the family room floor with no determination to put them away because “the kids will just get them out again in the morning.”

There were still friends that might as well be family dropping in and wrapping us in hugs. 

Upon my return, my brother pulled me in for a tight embrace, tears coming to my eyes. My sister-in-law was still all smiles, asking questions to catch up. While I was gone, they’d brought a beautiful baby girl into the world. She was a change, but with the adoring looks of her parents and watching her cousins interact with her, it felt as though she’d always been there.

My parents were still willing to stop whatever they were doing to help those they loved. My mom even took an extended vacation to escort us to our new home and wrangle the kids while my husband and I got settled. 

The message was clear: I was, and always would be, welcome to lay my hat (or my five giant suitcases) at my mom and dad’s. No matter how old I got, no matter how things in my hometown changed, their warm embrace would always be the same, and they would always have room.

And now, while we await household goods, our unaccompanied baggage from Germany, and an obscene amount of Amazon orders (seriously, it’s been a long time since we could get two-day shipping!), our location offers one more perspective of home.

“There’s no place like home.”

Now that we’re settling in the Sunflower State of Kansas, we’ve learned, “There’s no place like home.” No matter where we are, home is wherever we are with those we love. It isn’t a temporary place, but rather a feeling. The knowledge of having an ecstatic welcome, a bear hug, a kiss on the cheek from those we love. There’s nothing like it. 

For more pieces about the crossover between military life and “home,” check out this story about being home-less and this one about redefining what we know as “home.”