One summer while we were vacationing in California, we ran into somebody at the Farmer’s Market, probably the parents of one of EJ’s high school friend. “Are you home for some time?,” they asked. I was struck by this question. In my book, if you have moved away from your “hometown” and made a life somewhere else, this is your new home. Actually, EJ has said before that coming back to Paris after some time away felt like coming home. But around here, one hears “home” often used to describe the place where you grew up.
I understand that one might have strong attachments to the place where one grew up, went to school, formed influential friendships and in a way became oneself. I understand that the holidays are a time to trek back to that place – provided that one’s parents or part of the family still lives there. There is a restaurant around here where you can go every night during the last two weeks of December to meet old high school friends. Just before Christmas, we spent one evening in San Francisco with EJ’s brother and sister and a bunch of their high school friends. I admire the ability to keep the bond strong through the years and the moves. But I also find it somewhat spooky to call the place of your childhood home…as if you had never moved on. It makes me feel as if an umbilical cord was never properly cut.
To me, the town where I grew up and where a significant portion of my family still lives is not “home” anymore. I think that Paris is probably the place I am most likely to call home because it is where I have spent most of my recent adult life, had children and indeed have a home. Of course, for the duration, the place where we live here in California is home. In general, I would like to think that home is wherever the boys, EJ and I are living together.
