I first moved from Southern California in 1968, just before turning 10 years old. My brother, with an apartment near the beach cities and a good job, chose to stay. So, with the exception of four years in the 1980s, I grew up separated from my brother by 11 years and a few thousand miles.
I first moved from Southern California in 1968, just before turning 10 years old. My brother, with an apartment near the beach cities and a good job, chose to stay. So, with the exception of four years in the 1980s, I grew up separated from my brother by 11 years and a few thousand miles.
We maintained certain family rituals; while we did not speak every month, we spoke by phone a few times each year, and would sometimes meet up in one state or another to visit extended family. The Midwest held little attraction for my eldest sibling, so I’d make regular pilgrimages to L.A. to crash on his couch and borrow his car.
Months ago, the news arrived that he and his wife would be visiting her sister in comparatively nearby Indiana. Would it be all right if they stayed a couple of nights with me?
As I grew up, our family regularly shacked up with relatives on our vacations. I had far more experience sleeping in someone else's house then acting as host, but was delighted at the chance to show my big brother some hospitality.
More than a year in the new house has not, as yet, brought about the final disposition of quite a few boxes. Moving my stuff into the new home seemed like enough; assigning them more permanent places could wait until later.
The coming of guests brought that later closer to now. Though the spare bedroom had been a warehouse of stacked cardboard containers, it soon had to be a welcoming space for my loved ones. So it was I spent hours over the past few weeks going through my as-yet unsorted belongings.
I was not completely successful culling my overpopulated herd of possessions. Frequently, some memento from a half filled box would move me to dreamy remembrances; most often my keepsakes were returned to corrugated storage and piled in a basement corner. The living areas, especially the spare bedroom, were made ready for cordial occupancy.
My brother and sister-in-law arrived after a long drive from the Hoosier state. We spent three days going through old photos, reminiscing, and eating too much at various restaurants. They had not changed; she played the good-natured, long-suffering wife while he embodied the curmudgeon, his crusty exterior belying his sentimental, marshmallow interior.
We took in some of the local sights as well as Greenfield Village, a historical theme park set up years ago by Henry Ford. On Father’s Day, my sons sat a few hours with us, charming their aunt and uncle as an extra little gift to dad. When my visitors finally had to leave, I kept up the tradition of waving as they drove out of sight, smiling through tears.
This visit got a few more things out of boxes and put away, yes, but it also made the house feel like a real home. Filled with the memory of my loved ones, this is where my heart finally is.
Pat Grimes, a former South Bay resident, writes from Ypsilanti, Mich. He can be reached at pgwriter@inbox.com.
