Home is where the heart is, so the cliché goes. But at this
point in time, I haven’t a clue where home, or my heart is. Right now, home is
where I park it.
As I write this, I am on the road again. I spent about three
weeks back in the East, camping in Northern New Jersey and then visiting
friends in Western Virginia. Now I am in the hills south of Louisville,
Kentucky working for Amazon shipping out holiday season packages until
Christmas Eve. After that I haven’t a clue where I’m going, at least for the
long term.
The RV Park that is my home until Christmas Eve, located in the Kentucky Hills. Beautiful foliage is at it's peak for the moment.
I’ve been to some of my “homes” of the past on my visit here.
As I visited my friend and high-school prom date Emily in
Denville, I stopped by at the house my parents moved to from the city when I
was about six. It is a touchstone in a way in that it was really the last place
I felt secure before my parents separated less than two years later, leading me
on an insane and nomadic life for nearly a decade. Possibly a reflection of the
way I am today? I had met the current
owner a couple of years ago on a previous visit and she was gracious enough to
permit me to view the inside of the home, which has much changed since the
1950s. But it still has an incredible, wonderful view of the lake that was so
much of my life then. The house sort of looked the way my parents hoped it
would be.
As soon as I arrived in the area, I arranged to visit with
my son, Matthew, on Long Island. I have become quite proud of him, as he has overcome
many things to become a productive member of his community in many different
ways. He still lives in Ronkonkoma, where my children were raised, and I
stopped to look at the old homestead. Not much has changed. Some trees have
been knocked down and there have been minor changes in the gardens. The new
owners have added a cement walk and driveway instead of the gravel we had. I
hope they don’t get too much flooding as a result of water runoff. But as I
looked at it, it was as if it was simply a place where I spent about three
decades. It wasn’t a home. I suppose I never felt very comfortable there. It
was even somewhat nomadic as I moved from the master bedroom to the living room
and then to one of my son’s bedrooms after he left for college.
In Port Jervis, NY, I stopped at the senior citizen
apartments where I lived until hitting the road about two years ago. I lived
there while going through my divorce because it was in the same state and thus
made the divorce costs far less expensive. The place reminded me of a prison,
with its sameness in every one-bedroom apartment. I had dinner with one of my
then neighbors, Donna, who told me the complex had gone down the tubes quite a
bit and many people, herself included, moved. I am told the place has been
accepting welfare people, and getting more crime and drugs as a result.
For a few days, I stayed the last days of the season at
Rockview Valley RV Park, where I spent the summer of 2011 and a month in 2012. In
2011, it was a place of refuge as I stayed off the road and just rested there and
used the pool. In 2012, I spent a month there recovering from pneumonia that I
caught in the south. The neighbors were nice people who had been there many
years and I renewed acquaintances with a couple of them. But as the season
ended, I had to move on. Last year, I stayed in a location in the camp I wasn’t
comfortable with and though there are more desirable campsites available next
summer, I don’t know if I will go there as I may head back to the Dakotas for
the summer before returning to Oregon.
Oregon is a wonderful place, but it can also be depressing
during the constant winter rains. And while there are places there where I’ve
made my home for a few months at a time, it is just as much of a workplace as a
home. As for the Dakotas, there are places where I feel more than welcome. But
there is a feeling of being solitary. I don’t like being solitary any more.
And so, for the two weeks, I was at a county park in
Jefferson Township, NJ. In some ways, this is a home, though the only person I
know is the ranger. It is where I camped when the ex and I separated. It is the
place where I started trying out my first trailer and went through an
incredible rainstorm that turned to snow overnight. It is another place to
retreat to. The other day, Emily and I walked along a lake in the park, and
took a long hike in the woods. I felt safe, even when we got a little lost and
had to backtrack as we were getting close to losing light. But it is not a
place I can stay.
One day, I visited my friends Frank and Gina. They helped
house me at times during the divorce when I had to be on Long Island for
meetings with lawyers and such. They made me welcome, but I always felt
uncomfortable accepting their hospitality. And they have moved to North
Carolina, like many others unable to afford the cost of living on Long Island. They
were in New Paulz, NY to visit their son. They have invited me to spend
Christmas with them and I may. It’s a trip of more than nine hours although I
haven’t any other plans and being alone on Christmas isn’t something I really
want.
And I also visited several high school classmates. We lived
in Morristown, NJ but none of us has remained there, though two of them still
live near the town. A few years ago, I took a look at the house I lived in when
I went to high school. It is a pretty Victorian-era home built shortly after
the Civil War. When I returned to college in the 1990s, I took a course in
American social history. The house clearly followed the advice of Domestic Diva
Katherine Beecher, sister of Harriet Beecher Stowe and the author of many books
and editor of a women’s service magazine. She was sort of like the Martha
Stewart of her day and was a strong advocate of fresh air, among other things.
My old room had a three-sided window arrangement. But it was also a place of
high drama as my mother returned to her alcoholic ways.
So I ask myself “What is my home?” and “Where does my heart
lie?” I find I don’t know the answers, and that surprises me. If anything, my
last three years have been a quest to discover who I am and where I belong. A
couple of my friends from Florida call this a long-term visit to “Munzerville.”
Its sole resident is getting real tired of being a road warrior. I have seen
many wondrous places and have met thousands of people from all over the world.
But it is still a solitary life. And I’m sick of it. The other day, I went to
Mammoth Cave National Park, and earlier this week I was at Shenandoah Valley
National Park. Both places are magnificent, especially during this colorful
autumn season. But I felt as if I was simply showing up rather than a sense of
wonder.
People who know me well are aware of why I chose to return
to the area where I grew up. But the reason for the visit included unrealistic expectations. So that is why I’ll
be spending the holiday season working for Amazon in Campbellsville, KY. And,
after that, I suppose I will visit another home away from home, a RV park in
Georgia. The people there probably saved my life as they got me to their doctor
when my April 2012 bout with pneumonia was at its worst. So I will also feel
safe and welcome there.
But I’ll still be alone. It sucks. And yes, I’m feeling
sorry for myself. I understand that, but I don’t care. I’ve been doing some
binge eating too, gaining back about 5 of the 25 pounds I lost over the summer.
Someone I spoke with recently said they admire my plans. Hell, I just don’t
have any. Home is where I park it. So, I’ll continue to write about wonderful
places with nice pictures because it’s all I can do for now. But my hope for
the next year is to find someone to share it with. Is anyone out there
listening?
