Home is the place where, when you have to go back,
they just take you in.
Robert Frost
One of these days, these boots ...
In 69 years; I’ve lived in 28 places. mostly rentals (even now). Some for a few months, some for a year or more. All (ok most) temporary.
For me, parents? Have very little to do with home. Ya - another story for a different day; turbulent. We were mobile; A default. Pack yer shit. Get ready to go. Dad drifting from job to job, skipping rent for a month and bolting. The early 60’s was way cool if you were a kid. Not so as an adult. Mom & Dad were miserable. Unfaithful. Impotent. These boots are made for walkin’ (Nancy Sinatra ’66). Mom walked that October, 4 months after that song was released. It's not something small town Canadian wives did then. Modern woman - enough bullshit. Little tip for all you guys out there who think you got it all figured out ... you don't.
In the years before and after, moving again & again, month to month never knowing - it sucked. Different schools, different kids. Never time to make friends before moving again. I’m thinking Mom and Dad's relationship was fertile earlier on, then a burden; pain in the ass. Being unsettled? It’s in my nature. So when I see 90%+ of those living on this planet still - in the same place as I was? I feel lucky.
Sont les mots qui vont tres bien ensemble
In quieter times, Sunday afternoon drives around Woodstock Ontario was a thing we did in the early 60s. Just cruising around, looking at stuff. Fun. Fresh air. In fall ’65, Lester B. Pearson was our Prime Minister. Some voted Liberal and some Conservative but essentially we were one in the same. I vividly remember the four of us in our yellow '63 Chevrolet Impala driving east on Henry Street with Michelle by the Beatles on CKOX radio and Dad saying ‘I love this song’. WTF. Dad saying he likes a Beatles song? No way. It was like a rare awakening/surrender, like the world was becoming liberated, even Dad. I was astounded. Mom a bit surprised. Mom felt like home for a short time after she left him. Dad was never even close to home; abused and abusive - drinker. I lived for my distractions … Looney Tunes on Sat. mornings kept me sane. My younger brother David was a buffer (and he would say the same about me). All good. A serious appreciation with what was coming. Later (ok now).
Those thick black clouds on the horizon moving in incrementally.
Pointe Aux Roches
I’d seen them before as a child. Our home is at risk of calamity, disrepair. That little bit closer each day. Watching. Worried? Na. Concerned? Definitely. A shit-storm unlike anything I’ve ever seen. The distractions continue … a new blog post. Born into a Canadian winter in northern Ontario has it’s perks in preparation for the blast to come.
First Sudbury, London/Woodstock - Toronto, and out in the boonies earlier on (Stoney Point/Pointe Aux Roches) - Essex county was desolate, from ages 11-16 (Lake St. Clair/Windsor) with very little real human contact. Writing and finishing my remix trilogy/Temple Redux mostly now, documenting my journey. Mom saved me in my late teens. Toronto was eventful. An amazing daughter with her own challenges. It’s all good. Prolific, settled and relaxed. Retired now in 2025. Living through the prime of my life (70s, 80s, 90s) in Canada was essentially winning the lottery.
In 28 places … I’ve lived in 2 homes. Both in Woodstock Ontario Canada. Houses on lots - where magic happened/happens. A continuation.
Home is where the heart is
It’s all cyclical. Look at the patterns and it’s not really that difficult to see that when we forget, we repeat. Whole nationalities have no idea what HOME is. In the millennia of their scattered evolution and broken dreams, they can’t even describe it, because they’ve never felt it, been there. What home might feel like is just an idea that they’re still fighting for. Desperate for some sense of it. Most humans now have no idea what being settled and secure feels like. I am fortunate. So many are too even though they don’t show it. Rampant entitlement prevails especially in the west. Entire countries further east having no idea what home is.
Take Israel. They’re still recovering from half a century of humiliation and physical torture/death and a legacy of hyper-reaction in defence - to this day! Ok, I have serious issues around genocide in any way shape and form BUT! I did not live through that, like they did. Am I angry at them? Yes. Can I blame them? No. Greed spawns hatred that continues to spin generations later. As long as we continue depriving those who we think don't deserve what we have, shall we provoke reaction and resentment. What goes around, comes around.
Overture, Curtains, Lights
We are all in this together. Trump is a symptom not the disease and MAGA is just a reaction to unfettered Capitalism spiralling into chaos going way back. Worse? Absolutely. Necessary? Most of us now believe it is. Greed has no ideology and no remorse. Democrats and Liberals are as much to blame for enabling the billionaire class and protecting wealth. Joe Biden had 4 years to correct our course and prevent the crash and he didn't. Fascism is always the bastard child of a bankrupt liberalism. If democracy cannot exist amicably then maybe we should put it out of it's misery is now the mantra of tens of millions who voted for this massive shift stateside and the millions poised to do the same here later this year. Sad, only in that it just makes it all so much worse. Now, it no longer matters what's true but what's correct in the service of those who matter. Those not subscribing are expendable. A new 'elite' that will eclipse the old, endorsed and enabled by the masses desperate for change, having no idea what they have unleashed. Like it doesn't matter. Are we suicidal? I'm thinking yes.
In this expanding social inequality and steady erosion of our democratic institutions media, congress, organized labour, academia and the courts leading to an authoritarian christian/fascist state, there is this unsettled alienation purposely designed to distract and withdraw. Corporate Christianity is a marriage between Godzilla and Frankenstein. Unthinkable and yet - here we are - staring into the dark lair of the beast while he watches back in silence, unseen. Maybe I need to get back to safety.
Epilogue: Golden Years
Home is not about owning a house or having possessions others don’t have. Brick & mortar with your name on it does not make it home. My first home was on Edward Street in Woodstock after we moved in w/my deaf grandmother Mona in 1960. I was 4. When I walked into that modest, dark two story Victorian, I just knew that this was home. That musty musky smell, surrounding trees … HER. No, home was her. Grandma Batho. Simple, silent, resilient/fragile and loving. That was the combination that made it home for me. No partisan patriots, no judicial gerrymandering, no mass media manipulations. Just parents going through a rough patch and needing a place to live for awhile; Dad unemployed again.
God, this feels good!
In my golden years, I’m back in Woodstock and live in a turn of the century renovated Victorian that reminds me of her. My second real home now in 69 years. I live alone with my cat Tippy (that I'm convinced is a reincarnation of Mona) and it feels the same. I’ve learned that it’s all about appreciating this moment. What has been and what will be are just faint echoes of the here and now, ringing truer and truer.
Because I’m home.
.
.
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