When I was about seventeen years old, my Mom and I moved into an apartment on the second floor of a house in the old South area of London. Once we moved everything in, I spent the entire rest of the weekend painting my bedroom, putting my pictures back up and arranging everything just as it was before we moved. When I was done, I dipped my hands in the paint and left my handprints on the back of my door. I wanted some evidence of my presence to be left behind. I wanted there to be proof that someone’s adolescence had occurred within those walls.
My Mom and I moved a lot when I was young. I can remember six or seven different places that occupied our lives while we were in London. While it always seemed to bother the people around us, I always thought of it as an adventure. While our lives happen to consistently change addresses…home was always where my Mom and I happen to be at that moment. Changing homes just seemed so insignificant compared to the many other things that were constant; we had lots of family nearby…we still had a girls’ night out every Friday…I still graduated high school with many of the same people that I started kindergarten with…I still had baseball practice twice a week …we still had a Christmas tree every year and a pumpkin every Halloween. Some things just never changed.
Or so I thought.
In the fall of 1997, shortly after I moved here to Ottawa, my Mom decided to move to B.C. She packed up her things, hopped on a westbound bus and just like that…I was homeless. Of course, I wasn’t actually homeless but, while all of my classmates headed home for the holidays and long weekends, every physical trace of my existence now fit into a top floor bedroom that I was renting in Ottawa’s student ghetto. I hadn’t carved my initials in a backyard tree…there was no pencil marks indicating my growth spurts on a family room wall…the handprints on my bedroom door had long been painted over…and the single person that I knew to be home was suddenly a world away. I guess that’s the thing about moving around a lot; while on one hand, you learn to never rely on your past too much…on the other hand; you couldn’t have even if you wanted to.
For the next four or five years, I was living life like a nomad…a person with no permanent home but moves about according to the seasons. I lived in countless different places with countless different people. It wasn’t much different than what I had known for most of my life and when you’re a student, almost everyone around you is going through the same thing too; living off of eight month leases and trading in roommates as often as we did textbooks. It became apparent to me that as I got older, I desired a “home” more than ever, because with all the change and instability in my life, I very much craved some sense of familiarity…a place to go back to that could help remind me of how far I’d gone. There is no worse feeling than being homesick for a home that doesn’t exist.
As life settled down a bit, so did I. In the spring of 2004, Steve and I moved into our current apartment. One of my favourite memories of our relationship was the weekend that we moved in here. It was a cold, stormy March weekend. We ordered delivery and stayed up all weekend arranging our apartment as the first step in building our life together. We simply couldn’t get enough of our newfound domestic arrangement! We’ve been happily enjoying our little abode ever since and for me, it’s the first home that I’ve known in many years. The more time that I spend here though, the more I have begun to rely on the comfort and stability of having a place that defines and reflects who we are as people. Our home has become our castle and when all else fails in the world, we can come home, close the door and know that among our 640 square feet…there is love and happiness.
As I write this, I am looking at a picture of one of my favourite places in the entire world; my mother and father-in-law’s home in Tilbury, Ontario. A beautiful, Victorian home in South Western Ontario filled with memories, family and the constant aroma of something baking!! Three or four times a year, all of us kids pack up our vehicles and endure the long drive home to spend holidays and weekends together as family. We all trickle in at varying times throughout the night but, come the next morning, we would all meet downstairs in our pajamas around the dining room table for breakfast. I love going to Tilbury. I love it because whenever we go there, I am reminded that I am someone’s daughter and for as long as we go there, there will always be cookies on the kitchen counter to eat in the middle of the night. It won’t ever matter how old I am…when I walk through the doors of Carlyle Street, I am, once again, someone’s child.
The concept of having a home and the importance of it in my life is more prominent now because this past week…the walls of our first home went up. Steve and I made the decision to build our first home back in May and now, I can drive by and see what will soon be our front door. Having no memory of ever living in anything that has been owned before, this next step in my life carries a lot of significance. For four months now, Steve and I have been choosing everything from electrical outlets and sub-flooring to kitchen counters and pot lighting. Our apartment is a flurry of paint chips and design magazines, and one day, all of this work is going to make a home. But sink faucets and hardwood floors aside, it will more importantly be home to future Christmas trees, Halloween pumpkins, family dinners, four legged friends, two legged additions to the family and a foundation in which to call our own. I hope very much to fill it with the same love and sense of security that our home in Tilbury never fails to provide us with. This home will hopefully reflect our desires as creatures of comfort and also reflect our desire to make those we that we love always know that they have a home too. While Steel Street will become our new haven, it’s equally important that Christina always has her own room and a soaker tub for her post-marathon rituals…that Marie will always have a hideout during football season…that Priya and Rohan will always have a place to go on Halloween for the best treats…that Heather and Roberta will have a fireplace to warm up next to after too many hours on the canal…that Kathy will always have a kitchen stocked with all of her necessities and a place on the wall for candy ribbons…that our door is not just our own…but home to those that have always done the same for us.
Our home will always be their home because, without them, our home simply isn’t complete.
On that note, we look forward to seeing you in February of 2008, as the newest Smyth home opens its doors for many years to come…
My Mom and I moved a lot when I was young. I can remember six or seven different places that occupied our lives while we were in London. While it always seemed to bother the people around us, I always thought of it as an adventure. While our lives happen to consistently change addresses…home was always where my Mom and I happen to be at that moment. Changing homes just seemed so insignificant compared to the many other things that were constant; we had lots of family nearby…we still had a girls’ night out every Friday…I still graduated high school with many of the same people that I started kindergarten with…I still had baseball practice twice a week …we still had a Christmas tree every year and a pumpkin every Halloween. Some things just never changed.
Or so I thought.
In the fall of 1997, shortly after I moved here to Ottawa, my Mom decided to move to B.C. She packed up her things, hopped on a westbound bus and just like that…I was homeless. Of course, I wasn’t actually homeless but, while all of my classmates headed home for the holidays and long weekends, every physical trace of my existence now fit into a top floor bedroom that I was renting in Ottawa’s student ghetto. I hadn’t carved my initials in a backyard tree…there was no pencil marks indicating my growth spurts on a family room wall…the handprints on my bedroom door had long been painted over…and the single person that I knew to be home was suddenly a world away. I guess that’s the thing about moving around a lot; while on one hand, you learn to never rely on your past too much…on the other hand; you couldn’t have even if you wanted to.
For the next four or five years, I was living life like a nomad…a person with no permanent home but moves about according to the seasons. I lived in countless different places with countless different people. It wasn’t much different than what I had known for most of my life and when you’re a student, almost everyone around you is going through the same thing too; living off of eight month leases and trading in roommates as often as we did textbooks. It became apparent to me that as I got older, I desired a “home” more than ever, because with all the change and instability in my life, I very much craved some sense of familiarity…a place to go back to that could help remind me of how far I’d gone. There is no worse feeling than being homesick for a home that doesn’t exist.
As life settled down a bit, so did I. In the spring of 2004, Steve and I moved into our current apartment. One of my favourite memories of our relationship was the weekend that we moved in here. It was a cold, stormy March weekend. We ordered delivery and stayed up all weekend arranging our apartment as the first step in building our life together. We simply couldn’t get enough of our newfound domestic arrangement! We’ve been happily enjoying our little abode ever since and for me, it’s the first home that I’ve known in many years. The more time that I spend here though, the more I have begun to rely on the comfort and stability of having a place that defines and reflects who we are as people. Our home has become our castle and when all else fails in the world, we can come home, close the door and know that among our 640 square feet…there is love and happiness.
As I write this, I am looking at a picture of one of my favourite places in the entire world; my mother and father-in-law’s home in Tilbury, Ontario. A beautiful, Victorian home in South Western Ontario filled with memories, family and the constant aroma of something baking!! Three or four times a year, all of us kids pack up our vehicles and endure the long drive home to spend holidays and weekends together as family. We all trickle in at varying times throughout the night but, come the next morning, we would all meet downstairs in our pajamas around the dining room table for breakfast. I love going to Tilbury. I love it because whenever we go there, I am reminded that I am someone’s daughter and for as long as we go there, there will always be cookies on the kitchen counter to eat in the middle of the night. It won’t ever matter how old I am…when I walk through the doors of Carlyle Street, I am, once again, someone’s child.
The concept of having a home and the importance of it in my life is more prominent now because this past week…the walls of our first home went up. Steve and I made the decision to build our first home back in May and now, I can drive by and see what will soon be our front door. Having no memory of ever living in anything that has been owned before, this next step in my life carries a lot of significance. For four months now, Steve and I have been choosing everything from electrical outlets and sub-flooring to kitchen counters and pot lighting. Our apartment is a flurry of paint chips and design magazines, and one day, all of this work is going to make a home. But sink faucets and hardwood floors aside, it will more importantly be home to future Christmas trees, Halloween pumpkins, family dinners, four legged friends, two legged additions to the family and a foundation in which to call our own. I hope very much to fill it with the same love and sense of security that our home in Tilbury never fails to provide us with. This home will hopefully reflect our desires as creatures of comfort and also reflect our desire to make those we that we love always know that they have a home too. While Steel Street will become our new haven, it’s equally important that Christina always has her own room and a soaker tub for her post-marathon rituals…that Marie will always have a hideout during football season…that Priya and Rohan will always have a place to go on Halloween for the best treats…that Heather and Roberta will have a fireplace to warm up next to after too many hours on the canal…that Kathy will always have a kitchen stocked with all of her necessities and a place on the wall for candy ribbons…that our door is not just our own…but home to those that have always done the same for us.
Our home will always be their home because, without them, our home simply isn’t complete.
On that note, we look forward to seeing you in February of 2008, as the newest Smyth home opens its doors for many years to come…
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