What is Home?

I've heard some say it's where your pillow is. Others would say it's where your heart is. Maybe you define home as where you pay rent or where the majority of your family members reside. Perhaps you refer to home as a region rather than a distinct location. For some of you, home is a collection of memories or a place to hide. Some of you left for college to never return home again - your parents moved due to "empty nest syndrome," a job transfer, or something very significant happened that would forever change the way you felt when you came "home." A change that would make you wonder if you could ever feel "home" at home again.

God's immutability has taken on a whole new meaning in my life. Since I left for college, my existence has required a barf bag in the front car of the wildest rollercoaster I could have ever imagined. One tragic event after another, followed by gracious persistence and momentum to move forward, to wind up doing a loop of confusion, down thrilling ramp of altered perspective, climbing a hill of calm and normalcy, for a quick drop into silence which rides out as a promise is kept... And the cycle goes on and on. So, God's never-changing attribute is precious.

Through it all, I have felt uncomfortable - experiencing both belonging and a lack of belonging. Why did I leave Lincoln? I had once belonged, but no longer belonged. Why did I leave Danville? I had once belonged, but no longer belonged. Why am I in New Hampshire? I had once belonged, and for the moment I still belong.

But when I think of home...Derry, NH is not what comes to mind.

What is my home? It is an antique iron bed in a yellow bedroom in a white, stucco home in central Illinois. It is my mom crotcheting rugs in the living room. It is my oldest brother tearfully waving goodbye after a weekend visit. It is my older brother and his family next door. It is my baby brother and his family two blocks north. It is my dad commuting to work everyday. It is sacred. It is a story, a testimonial, of who I am and where I am going. And when home changes, I sense that story losing its validity - as though the life were being sucked right out of it. Perhaps the one thing I'm terrified of most is the final breath of my mother's existence being exhaled. Something which may only be best understood by her one daughter. Certainly, we can exchange cliches of her ongoing presence in the lives she touched, we can attempt to re-tell almost-forgotten stories she took great pride in sharing, but when I go "home" it will in a sense be fading away.

I now wonder how I can redefine my home, my story, so the expectations melt away?
I even wonder if it is possible.

How Do You Like Your Marshmallow?

Have you seen When Harry Met Sally? Sally is big on sides. She wants her salad dressings on the side, her vanilla ice cream on the side, her best friend on the side. This morning I realized that although my preferences may not require ingredients on the side, there are a few things that I am quite particular about when it comes to food.

For instance, I like marshmallows: big ones, small ones, pastel ones. However, if I'm toasting one at a campfire, I place the forked, puffed food in a warm place where it can cook "low and slow" just as a seasoned griller may cook his steak. If it burns, I give it away. It must remain white or a very light brown, but most importantly it must be all goo within. Then, I rarely enjoy the typical s'more unless, of course, I am successful in a particularly gooey marshmallow that will radically melt the small piece of chocolate on the graham.

As for small ones, at one time I would have preffered to treat myself with a thick layer of small marshmallows melted across the top of my hot cocoa drink. Last night, I discovered that I actually don't like the combination. I would much rather eat the two seperately.

Did you know it can take me an hour to make tuna fish salad? I hate fish. I hate the taste, the odor, and the fact that every doctor wants me to eat it to bring down my cholesterol. I like tuna fish salad, but only if it doesn't look, taste, or smell anything like it's actual form. Therefore, I take whatever measures necessary to disguise the fish factor.

• Step one: Open white albacore in fresh water can.
• Step two: Hold breath and dump can into strainer.
• Step three: Rinse for a few minutes while pressing the meat with a fork to eliminate any fishy flavor.
• Step four: Spoon in a glop of miracle whip. Keep the spoon handy in case more needs to be added later.
• Step five: With a second spoon add a healthy portion of relish.
• Step six: Finely chop some onion and add it to the mix.
• Step seven: Stir. Taste. Add ingredients as necessary.
• Step eight: Refrigerate in an air-tight container as to not smell it when the fridge is opened.

I like chocolate milk, chocolate ice cream, and chocolate syrup, but I absolutely hate milk chocolate bars.

I thoroughly enjoy unsweetened hot tea, but abhor unsweetened ice tea.

I have to hold a napkin everytime I eat, but rarely do I actually use it.

I will hum the most annoying part of a song because it annoys me, but usually don't realize I'm doing it.

If I hear someone clicking a pen in church I will have strong driving desires to snap off their hands, but I sit their with a content look on my face and swing my legs to distract myself.

So, my question is this: How do you like your marshmallow? What makes you unique - or distractingly obnoxious?

What Would've Been Better?

What would have been better than the artist formerly known as The Artist Formerly Known As Prince at the Super Bowl Halftime Show?

David Chappelle acting like the artist formerly known as The Artist Formerly Known As Prince.

Now that would have been worth viewing on an illegal 56" television screen.

Best Week Ever

Her chirping voice was startling, almost humorous, but mostly nervous in nature. How could anyone speak so quickly?

"Oh yes, dear. It would be lovely, yes, lovely...oh! I just can't believe this is going to work out! I cannot explain my excitem...I will leave my brother's home immediately. Oh! I will have him take me home!"

She kept rattling on. The phone crackled a bit, but she was still there when the connection restored.

"All you have to do is sit there. Watch tv all day! Get drunk! I don't care, you don't have to do a thing I am just so thrilled to come home. Goodness sakes, I hope you don't think I'm a lush! I've been in the hospital since Saturday. I did tell you about the concussion, right? It will be so lovely, yes lovely!"

What, praytell, have I gotten myself into?

Being without paid employment will drive anyone to making rash decisions based merely on necessity. This was my impulsive choice: entertaining the company of a wired woman, 71 years of age who was intent on making my life a living circus. My apparent responsibilities: sit, tv, alcohol. Seemingly outlandish, yet by the end of our phone call I was ready for a Bourbon on the rocks and I would be lying if I didn't mention the passing, occassional thought of sedatives.

Upon meeting my new companion for the next week, it was quite obvious that there would be few dull moments and many inward desires of scratching my way through the screen door separating me from my get away car. From the outside, the home appeared to be a typical ranch. The inside, however, was masked in heavy furniture, candlesticks, and Victorian draperies. The cool temperature of the once-empty house seemed to couple perfectly with the chilling interior. It was then she came around the corner to greet me. Her body was encased in a checkered blanket turned cloak. A hood covered most of her head. The blue shades of the getup emphasized the black and bluish green scoops that shadowed her eyes. It was clear by the stitches across the bridge of her nose that the fall had been severe. (Later, several times later, I would hear about the blood that amazingly squirted from her forehead, painting modern designs of anguish on her bathroom cabinets.) Lost in my thoughts a noise caught my attention and suddenly brought me back to this newfound reality.

"Lindsay!" She exclaimed, "I don't normally look like this! I promise you! Just wait until you see my head, the hair pulled right out with the brain scan."

Can't wait.

Watching this woman move around her home was like seeing a coked up poodle hoola hoop. She buzzed, she whirled, and she began calling her overweight Siamese cat, "Miiiiiiing! Miiiiiiiiing!"

My eyes grew wide as her voice stung the utmost depths of my ear canal. "Miiiiiiing!" Was I hearing her correctly? What kind of name is Ming? Asian? I still don't know. I didn't ask for fear of voodoo magic.

Day one began well enough. She slept deeply into late morning, allowing me time to express myself through the written letter. Successful in my efforts of escapism, which I have found to be very helpful in some of life's most unpredictable of moments, I soaked up my quiet time. After cleaning up, I found out I would be in for a treat. Our time together was to be a fun-filled packed day of illegal trash dumping, bakery dropoffs, an introduction to her K9 pal, Tiger, and second hand shopping.

I must say, there is something about seeing a black-eyed woman wrapped in a mink coat lugging a trash bag twice her size to a forbidden, private trash barrel. More importantly, it is interesting to see that same woman carry herself with head held high into a thift shop and introduce "Nursie" to her Argentinian friends. I pride myself in good first impressions. It's not exactly something I have to work at, it just happens. Little did I know what it was going to get me this particular time. I overheard the ladies in the back, discussing my job well done and "magnificently blue eyes." Flattered, but a bit uneasy, I poked around the store and appeared distracted by used undergarments that hung off the nearest rack. Typically thrilled about inexpensive, quality thrift shopping I wanted nothing more but to get out and I probably should have tried.

"OH LINDSAY! Come back here! Try this on..."

Oh. My. Gosh. It was a fur coat. I don't do fur coats. I don't want to do fur coats. I drive a '96 Escort for crying out loud!

"Poot eet on!" The ladies persisted.

Size 1. By the expansive shoulders, I was hoping for a 10, any excuse to rehang the coat and do what I was learning to do best - escape. No. It fit. It fit well (according to the persistent woman in mink).

To my chagrin, she bought the coat to later discover that it is genuine chinchilla and worthy of wear anytime and anyplace. Suddenly, one week was looking like a lifetime. It was from the point on that I tried to "forget" the chinchilla, but was continually reminded of the chinchilla.

So there I was, driving to Target the next evening...in my Escort...in my chinchilla...in personal agony. I sat in the parking lot for at least five minutes debating whether or not it was too cold to run in and out without a coat. I'll be cold. No doubt about that. It's worth it... I am not wearing this coat into Target! WAIT! Swinging my head around to my backseat, I caught a glimpse of my black leather coat smuggled beneath a map and bag. SWEET RELEASE!!!

My elderly companion thinks I went to Target, small group, and church on Sunday in my fur. Each time I secretly exchanged it for the black leather. And each time she spoke to a friend on the phone, she told them of my fabulous new coat. And each time company stopped by, I modeled my prized possession (which I discovered later, while overhearing a phone call, was to make up financially where her payment fell short). Tiger was the only one who didn't care about the coat.

Tiger, come to find out, was a classic sweater dog. Part Min Pin, part Chihuahua. Who would have guessed that a six pound combination of fur, meat, and bones would console me in my tense situation? I usually want to ... kick them! I think I had a breakthrough.

But I don't want to talk about it.

The final morning arrived. A doctor released me from the attached-at-the-hip watch I had been commissioned to fulfill and it was time to go home. My room was unusually warm when I woke up so into the kitchen I trudged. My movement stopped abruptly as my gaze tried to take in what I found standing before the counter. Mink hat, wirey white hair sticking out from the round edge, a nightgown beneath the aforementioned ankle length mink coat, tall socks within rubber boots, and a sweater dog about six pounds heavy tucked into the nook of her arm. "Oh, good morning Lindsay! I just got back from a quick trip to the grocery store."

I smiled.

My new elderly friend was wired, but wise; talkative, but good-natured; eccentric, but authentic.

Whoever says unemployment is uneventful should follow me around for a month.


Endnote: In experiencing these moments I must add that I had a good time getting to know this woman. I also want to add that it was very difficult for me to sum up the events of the week so abruptly. Had I not been so consumed with distraught shock and awe during the actual experience, I would have made better notations throughout the week and perhaps would have communicated the details more effectively. This is just a mere sliver of what I saw, heard, and experienced.