Sliding into Home

Six months after moving to Austin from the Bay Area, I mustered the will to make the trek home. I use the term home loosely since I am confused about its application to my life. I lived in the San Francisco Bay Area since 1975, moving from Southern California after one unremarkable year immersed in beach culture to attend San Francisco Art Institute. Northern California quickly became home, my childhood and teen years spent in New England faded against the breathtaking backdrop of San Francisco. Although I frequently roamed the globe, each time the plane circled over the Golden Gate prior to landing, I felt fortunate to claim the Bay Area my home base.

Home transcends geography or a physical location, it is an emotional destination. Home is a vessel of memory, a way to trace the contours of our lives. In my youth, we moved frequently, our wandering a hallmark of my father's discontent. The early years of my marriage replicated the 3 year residency cycle until we bought the house in Pinole, the home my kids grew up in and still call home 20 years later. I reluctantly moved to the suburbs after 13 years in Oakland. My preference was Seattle, then a still undiscovered real estate market; however, my husband's job security and rock solid pension determined we remain Bay Area residents. I was depressed when we bought the Pinole house, retreating in defeat after my cousin's death and my best friend moving to Seattle with her family. The place I introduced her to became her home, and the large house in Green Lake with the hardwood floors and old world detail I yearned for was hers, while my fate was a tract house with a postage stamp yard.

I lost and regained my life in the Pinole house. After my divorce, I vowed to sell it as soon as Rena graduated high school. Jonathan and I would return to Oakland or Berkeley when Rena unpacked her first trunk in her collage dorm room. The universe had something different in store for me; however, and I remained in Pinole, eventually making the house my home. A five minute proximity to a trail along the San Pablo Bay was my salvation. Fields of green in spring and mustard yellow in summer, tidal shifts resulting in a sea of glass or choppy waves, the morning sun blazing and bright, and the muted late afternoon tones inspired paintings and poetry while soothing my heart. I jogged along the bay trail for years, and prior to its paving, I ran through a worn path of wildflowers, greeted every morning by a red tail fox who locked eyes with me before scurrying into a cluster of woods. Jonathan rode his bike beside me as I walked,us listening to Maria Callas sing opera though shared earphones as the sun gradually fell behind Mt. Tamapias. When Pepsi was a puppy, her first taste of swimming was in the bay, establishing her love for water. I met a group of dog walkers, and we formed a pack of dog and people friends. One of the pack was Cecelia and her Golden Retriever Maddy, and the four of us became fast friends. Pepsi and Maddy had an uncanny relationship, a unique bond between two dogs. When Maddy died unexpectedly, the grief swallowed us up, though perhaps it was Pepsi who had suffered the most profound loss, her Maddy girl no longer romping with her or sitting next to her in the backseat en route to Pt. Isabelle for Sunday morning swims. The bay trail is a kaleidoscope of magical moments and memories embossed in my heart.

I came to love the Pinole house and the safe harbor it provided my family. I mortgaged it to pay for college and get us through many hard times. It was remodeled to reflect my persona after years of wear and tear, and just when it seemed complete, Pepsi and Pearl came along to chew pieces of baseboards, sheet rock and carpet. The garden I lovingly tended was dug up. The next iteration of the house on Dohrmann Lane was underway with puppy love. I was tempted to sell when Bay Area home prices soared, looking at condos and duplexes in Oakland, fantasizing about empty nesting. Pepsi put an end to that plan when I set on eyes her as a five week old ball of fur. I was a mom again, my house overflowing with commotion and chaos. Life has a way of switching gears without warning, and when the deed is done there is nothing more right, the previous plan fading to the distance without a regret. Pepsi brought joy and light to my life, and in the aftermath of Maddy's death, Pearl cushioned our grief.

I was ready for a change, and when applying to PhD programs, Berkeley was not a consideration. There seemed no way to focus and match the rigor of doctoral study in Pinole with the distraction of my family in such close proximity. Out of sight is not necessarily out of mind; however, it prevents me from inserting myself when backing off is best for everyone. I fell in love with Austin on my first visit, feeling this city could be home. I found a wonderful mid century house with hardwood floors and a large yard for the doggies. The neighborhood was established, within biking and walking distance of cafes, bars and shopping, and better yet, three miles from campus. This was the life I had longed for, and although I would miss the bay trail, Red Bud Island and Barton Springs compensated the loss. When asked if I missed the Bay Area, I answered in the negative with true conviction. Austin offered me all I needed, and with the demands of a doctoral program, I have yet to take advantage of Austin's attributes.

Six months passed quickly. When the semester ended, I was exhausted, satisfied to stay tucked away in my house watching HGTV in my pajamas until noon. The thought of getting on a plane to the Bay Area was not tugging at my heartstrings. People asked if I intended to go home, yet home had shifted to Austin, the place I lived with my dogs and welcomed my family on their visits. The house in Pinole was out of my hands, it was Tommy and Jonathan's home and no longer reflected my presence. Returning meant helping get the house together, cleaning the garage and making people feel slighted no matter how hard I tried to allocate my visits equitably. Filling my days in Austin reading novels, watching stupid TV shows, sleeping late and going to the gym at 1pm was blissful in comparison to going to the Bay Area and working harder then I have since I put my Austin house together on my own. I delayed a decision as long as I could, or until my reoccurring knee pain became so severe I could no longer avoid an MRI. The logical choice for continuity of care and expediting an MRI request meant returning to the Bay Area. I had postponed the inevitable long enough, it was time to go home, or at the very least, to the house that was home for 20 years of my life.

It was as I expected. I spent the better part of five days cleaning, arranging, and putting things in good order. The cloud looming overhead disappeared, making way for future visits without a work agenda. I did what I came to do, wrapped up unfinished business and felt the better for it. The realization that I drove away from a 20 year life on a July morning, my last glimpse of my family waving goodbye from my rear view mirror established a permanent place in my chronological past. There was a familiarity in simple gestures such as raising the blinds each morning, wiping the kitchen counters, folding clothes on the floor outside the laundry room. Fleeting glimpses of past days flooded my heart and mind. Cracks and crevices filled to the brim with memories. I saw my former self, the mother of young children making misstep after misstep. My son pounding a pillow in tears when we informed him of our impending divorce, my kids sitting side by side on the couch being lectured by their father after he rushed over to avert a crisis, letting them know in no uncertain terms that if something happened to him, and given the life expectancy of black males it could be sooner rather then later, I was their best shot and they better not forget it. Those moments have a way of making my heart stand still and blanket me with sadness.

There were many happy recollections as well. The days we stayed home from school and work to make art, laying in bed together at night reading Run Away Bunny, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and Angela's Ashes. My kids were allowed to draw on the walls,we turned up the music and told ghost stories in front of the fireplace on winter nights. The steady stream of my kid's friends spending nights. I remembered those who passed; our Golden retriever Molly, Kelly's weekend visits filled with rambunctious episodes to say the least, and my father's bittersweet presence. The screaming fights, tears, laughter, and good times are all part of what constitutes home.

My house in Austin is unblemished compared to the Pinole house. My desire to start from scratch with only my paintings and a rug was intentional. There was no space for crowds of memories, boxes spilling over in the garage, or the constant coming and going of footsteps through my house. I needed a clean slate to begin this next chapter and brace myself for the challenge of returning to school after a 23 year absence. I had no way to predict the waves of of loneliness that would wash over me when things were toughest. I would have paid any sum of money for someone to hold me close and assure me I would make it through the semester. In the middle of a city, a neighborhood, and a doctoral program, I felt as isolated as if I were on the North Pole. If not for Pepsi and Pearl, and Diane, my friend and other senior member of the cohort, I might not have made it.

For some unknown reason, I have always felt my kids and I would be okay. I have no rational basis for this belief; however, it has sustained me during many trials and tribulations, and to this day it seems for the most to be well founded. When my life resembled a daily cliff walk, I had a context for the notion that this too would pass. After all, no matter how bad things got, we always had safe shelter with nature just minutes away from our doorstep. The house represents our lives, slightly worn and frayed at the edges, though ready to stand the test of time with a bit of polish now and then. It serves a reminder of things we would rather forget and of memories we cherish most dearly. When we are lost, it reclaims us as more than a place, rather, an emotional touchstone, filling holes in our collective memory. It will always be home, the place where the Davis family was one, came of age, and branched out.

On my way to the San Francisco airport I tried to sort some concluding thoughts on the concept of home. Driving away from the house I felt neither visitor or resident. Home is pieces of us scattered across the universe. We can be found in the brief and long lasting encounters that take place over a lifetime, in a gust of wind blowing across the desert to the sea, in a silhouette that frames a windowsill, in the utterances of our children, the twinkle of an eye, and a fading sun setting against a beloved bay trail. We are everywhere we spread our love and contagious joy, where we demonstrate humanity and compassion, and redeem ourselves over and over as we grapple with life's lessons. In the end it comes down to just that, and four walls of any size and scope are not capable of containing our souls.

Crossing through the threshold of my Austin house I was greeted by Pepsi and Pearl. I missed them and the life we constructed in Austin. A new semester is days away, promising a most certain set of challenges. I have no doubt swells of loneliness are ready to pounce at the first sighting of trouble. Lucky for me, I have become adept at recognizing that storms eventually pass, and take solace in the quiet rather than be terrified by it. I lean on memories packed tight in a tract house filled with boxes of photos, children's drawings, stuffed animals, and other remnants of a family that continues to compile, collect and fulfill its promise. The ability to store the overload is what frees me to create new spaces, allowing me to slide into home base safely.