Home...Part 2

A story, another story and then some thoughts. If you haven't read Home...Part 1, you might want to start there. Or not.

In the summer, or perhaps spring or fall, of 1974 or 1975 (I was 5 or 6 years old, but, I can't be certain ...and, I realize this uncertainty immediately disqualifies the "truth" of this story for some people, in which case let's call this a "parable" or something and move on, shall we?) my buddy, Kevin, and I decided to go for an explore.

Kevin was at our place most days as his parents were both working. I don't remember much of what we did, but it must have been fun. Why else do I look back fondly on those days? Anyway...on this day we'd had enough of the yard at 15 Hoag Ave in Akron, New York. We were ready to expand our horizons.

My mother was known in those days as a strict disciplinarian and had explicitly spelled out to Kevin and me that our boundaries were the driveway on the north side of our house, and the sidewalks in front and on the south side. The backyard was bounded by another house. At age 5 or 6 I would have been very unlikely to disobey these rules. Kevin was more of a free spirit and, with a little prodding, convinced me we'd not be gone long and it would be fun to venture out.

From the backseat of his mom's car, Kevin had noticed the cannon that rests in the tiny little park at the corner of Hoag and Bloomingdale Ave and wanted to view it close up. That sounded like a superb idea once I considered its possibilities, and off we went.

We pretended to be soldiers or some such and marched off to the park to check out the cannon. I don't know why there was a cannon there, but, it was a terrific find. For quite some time we pretended to blast passing cars and Bosco's convenience store across the street. I see that Bosco's is now a deli of some  sort which I find to be a travesty. In my mind, Bosco's will always live as the place my sister was accused of shoplifting on her way to Brownie's. I'll allow that to stand until corrected.

Now we were Pirates preparing to plunder passing merchants, perhaps  purloining their pinnace for passage to a nearby island in search of buried treasure.

Then we were Union soldiers protecting some important fort from charging Johnny  Rebs.

Kevin was the idea guy. I mostly incorrectly tried out the obscenities I was learning at school, tossing them toward passers by at top of my lungs.  I had no idea what I was saying, but the disapproving looks my shouts garnered were well worth the effort. We both laughed until our sides hurt.

After a while, we'd exhausted both of our imaginations and opted for a game of tag, chasing each other around the tiny park. "Tag" was more "punch in the arm" and soon we were rolling in the grass wrestling, pulling each other's hair and ears like a couple mad men. Or silly little boys. You pick.

Then, we were just laying on the grass laughing. And then, just laying on the grass.

Besides her reputation for discipline, my mother was also known for her way of calling me in from play. "Andrew" became "Andrewwwwwww."  Pause. "Andrewwwwwwwwwwwwww." My name growing longer, the volume increasing each time she called.

I don't know how many times she had called us, but, by the time her voice reached my ears "Andrew" had become "AAAAAAAAAAAANNNNNNNNNNNNNNNDRREWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I'm certain she meant for us to come home right then.

Before continuing, let's notice the picture  I've clipped from Google maps. The red button is on our house. The gray button at the bottom  is on the canon. At no point on this adventure were we ever more than 400 feet from my house. If one kept to sidewalks, it's 0.1 miles. Tops.

Still, when my mother's call pierced the summer air, way past asking us to come home, Kevin and I looked  at one another as if we had not the slightest idea where we were. Or how we arrived. Or, and most importantly, how to get back. We might as well have been sitting right here at this desk sipping coffee.

Our faces faded to the whitest of white. We bolted to our feet and frantically looked around. Yes, indeed. We were lost lost lost. I'll spare you the following few frantic minutes fruitlessly fanning around for our way home. I don't remember how we made it back. I do recall the look on my mother's face when we strolled up the back steps. And Kevin's. That grin. Holy cow. How did he always manage that grin? Did he not realize we were now mere moments from death?

Anyway. Yes, there's a point to this story.

Sometimes, home is right in front of your face.

2012-2013 will not rank at the top of happiest years in the marriage of Andrew and Denise Gill. No need for details, but suffice it to say that as Em wrapped up high school, we at times considered doing the same to our union. Things were not cool.

In November, 2013 we moved from Georgetown, KY. We both changed jobs. We lived in an apartment for the first time. We were empty-nesters. Virtually everything in life as we knew it was different. I was more than a little uneasy. I was unsettled. I longed for home with no idea what that meant.

Some cool stuff started to happen. To get them out of the confines of our apartment, Denise and I took our dogs Howie and Henry for long, sanity restoring walks. We explored Pittsburgh together. We cooked dinner together in our kitchen. We talked. Like, had lengthy, meaningful conversations about a wide variety of topics - no longer just the logistical conversations couples have when rearing kids. We took a rowing class. We texted and called each other just to say hello. It was weird and wonderful and so 1988.

One day I posted something on the Facebook and, later, because that's what you do, checked back to see how many people like me. Denise had posted a comment...a quote from the new Phillip Phillips song, "I'm going to make this place your  home." A tear may have found its way to my eye.

I was sure at the time she was talking about Pittsburgh. In retrospect she was talking about us. She was, yet again, teaching me.

Sometimes, home is right in front of your face.

Home is not a place.

Home is being in love with your best friend.

Home is celebrating a frigid Christmas crammed into a smaller than tiny apartment with Denise, Caleb, Em, Courtney, Buck and Mary...and having it be one of the best ever.

Home is laughing with old friends.

Home is burying your parents' ashes with your siblings and then catching up over some fried chicken and being struck by just how much you love these people.

Home is walking to and from work with Caleb, listening to him talk about his band and dreaming with him about his future.

Home is being invited to be a guest on Em's podcast, talking about Harry Potter over a glass of wine.

Home is kayaking with Denise or driving hundreds of miles with her through Italy and Oregon and California and discussing everything and nothing.

Home is standing next to Mark Stahlsmith's grill.

Home is catching up with Matt Stevens at random times during the work week.

Home is dancing with Denise at a Luke Bryan concert (yes. dancing. at a Luke Bryan concert)

Home is watching Mark Rivera kill a Huey Lewis tune.

Home is asking Ben Gregory dumb questions about Liverpool football.

Home is knowing that no matter where I lay my head at night, I am there, and these and so many more beautiful people are journeying with me.

Home is having it get through to me that I have been at home all along.

Home is right in front of me.