Picture it: a small village dotted with identical little units constructed of brick, mortar, and concrete, named after a man no one knows. Picture further a community maligned as “hood” or “ghetto”—properly referred to as “public housing” but colloquially known by its residents as “the projects.” Regardless of how it’s pictured, for the first 18 years of my life, I simply called it “home.”
I still remember the address: 4519 9th Avenue North, Apt. B. At the center of that concrete-walled abode was my grandmother, who somehow transformed that two-story, low-income space into the source of some of my best childhood memories. There are different ideas or images that define home. Perhaps mine are not contrary to yours, consisting of hard-to-forget sights, smells, and people; all necessary ingredients that usually evoke good feelings and make you want to retreat to its welcoming embrace again and again, especially those days when the outside world is too much to endure.
I’m older and haven’t lived at that address in a long time. It’s been almost 30 years since my grandmother passed away, and I have my own house now. A house that I have furnished with some nice things. Interestingly, the part that signals home for me is an old wingback chair that used to be my grandmother’s. As the passage of time caused many things to do, the cushion in the pillow flattened, giving me a reason to reupholster it to match my decor. What remains beneath the new fabric is the creaky sound it makes whenever you sit in it. It’s the same creaky sound it made when my grandmother would sit in it all those years ago. Initially, that creakiness irritated me, but the more I sat in it, the more I remembered how connected it was to some of the best parts of my childhood. Sometimes, I time travel to the days when she sat there with me sandwiched between her knees as she plaited my hair–I still don’t understand how she always made the ends of my hair curl up so deliberately with just the twist of her hands. I also recall how, after she would prepare Sunday dinner or bake her delicious cakes for Christmas, she found rest waiting for her in the inviting comforts of that chair. If I daydream long enough, I can vividly see how her head would bob while she was taking an unexpected afternoon nap in her favorite spot. I have been known to take a few naps in the same way, if I’m being honest…maybe her chair has magical nap powers, but I digress.
Now, I’m not trying to equate home with an old, creaky chair. Instead, when I think of how I want my house to convey the same sense of home I had at my grandmother’s, I use the memories attached to it as my starting place. I don’t want my house to be just a constructed unit but a home that envelops me with the same coziness as that chair. Even the creaky sounds from the worn-down springs have a special role to play because so many loving thoughts of my childhood are attached to each creak. I want my house to have that feeling you just can’t get anywhere else, except from…you guessed it….home. That feeling is not just nostalgia but part of my DNA. That is HOME.
So here’s my challenge to you: the next time you walk to the door of your house and turn the key, find and settle into that favorite place that says, “Welcome home.”
