My Man, Delton (or, Home...Part 3)

One of Denise's life maxims is "leave each person a little better than you found them."

It's simple enough and can take many forms. A simple "thank you." Holding the door open for someone. Leaving a respectable tip. Smiling and greeting the people we pass on the street. Listening to folks when they speak to us.

I can't say I always succeed in fulfilling this adage, but I like it. And, I believe it's good to recognize when we see others living it.

Which brings me to Delton, FedEx customer service representative extraordinaire.

It's tempting before I go further, to relay our recent experience at the FedEx Shipping Center on 32nd St. or the USPS branch in the Westin Convention Center on Liberty Ave. I'll not do that.

I've not previously experienced  hearing someone virtually sing "Welcome, I'll be right with you" upon entering a business. Sure, I've been WELCOMED TO MOE'S!!!! But, to be honest, that usually comes off as robotic or scares the shit out of me depending on the source. Delton, though. That guy can welcome a person to his store.

I browsed the pens and calendars for a couple minutes while Denise waited at the counter for Delton to finish with the customer he was helping in the back. I glanced back at him and was convinced the FedEx Office and Print Shop on Penn Ave is powered exclusively on Delton's "I honestly want to be here, right here, doing this because it's amaaaaaaaaazing" smile. It's the smile gracing the face of the father of a newborn babe. The smile of a lottery winner. Of a champion. I couldn't wait to watch him help Denise mail her letter.

Delton's approach to the front counter reminded me of Henry, our mini golden doodle, just released from his leash in an open field. "How can I help YOU today?!" he asked. And, for all my natural cynicism, I knew he meant it. I felt like the Grinch looking down on Whoville on Christmas morning. "Fahoo Fores Dahoo Dores," indeed. My heart grew three sizes.

Delton literally danced as he informed Denise of her various options for sending the letter. Seriously. He danced.

He carefully typed, then double checked the receiving address and asked Denise to do the same. He squarely placed the label. He took care in precisely folding the flap and peeling off the sealing strip. This letter mattered as much to him as it did to her.

I looked at Delton's name tag and saw that it proudly proclaimed he'd been with FedEx since 1998.

Twenty years.

At a FedEx counter.

Because he likes it.

You can fake enjoying something for five minutes. You can't fake it for 20 years.

I saw  the store is hiring and briefly considered asking for an application before Denise and I floated out the door. On our way here we'd discussed dinner out, and now, there was no doubt. What kind of person doesn't celebrate happy hour after encountering Delton. Our server could have thrown our food at us and it wouldn't have dampened the mood.

Perhaps you are a person who is turned off by fake joyfulness. The Eeyores of the world pretending to be Tiggers are more than annoying. I'm right there with you. But, Delton...that guy is the genuine article.

Consciously or not, Delton is a standard bearer of Denise's maxim. He left us better than he found us, and I am grateful.

I've wondered aloud lately what it looks like to have a place that felt like home. I've observed that home isn't necessarily a place, but, the people and experiences we share on our journey.

Yesterday at FedEx, it was both. The place and the people. I can't explain it, but, because Delton wanted to be there, so did we. I'll never mail or ship anything from any place else if  it's in my control.

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.

Home....Part 1

It's fleet of foot - "home."

We've been chasing it for years. Or, at least I have. At some point, Denise fell in love with the adventure of moving on  and gets a rush out of planning "what's next."

For me, though, it's elusive.

It's not a pursuit I'm always aware of. But, each autumn, when  leaves start crunching underfoot and the air tastes a bit more crisp, it's unmistakable. An unnamed longing. An ache that's not quite an ache. More of what I imagine it feels like to wake up one morning  absent a limb. But, a limb that was never actually attached in the first place. You're aware it's missing.You're just not sure what "it" is.

There's a Welsh word for the feeling - "hiraeth." English has no equivalent. As close as we get is homesickness or longing. Pining for a home that is no longer there, that you can't go back to. Or maybe was never actually there. As one writer put it, "to be where your spirit is."

Take, for instance, this picture from Google maps of the house on Esplanade Ave in Louisville where I lived with my family from age 7 to 19...the longest I've lived anywhere. The siding on the bay window is different. The shrubs between our driveway and the Woodling's are gone, along with pine tree that used to tower over the front door and litter the yard with tiny pine cones.  The space occupied by that pile of trash (if my mother saw that!!) used to hold another tree - a maple if I recall correctly. The aerial view from Google shows me there's a pool in the backyard and that the oak that used to cast bizarre shadows from Bert Farmer's backyard into my bedroom has disappeared. This is clearly not where I grew up. Except it is. But, it's not home.

I used to rake the leaves in that front yard. I'd pull on my trusty zip-up gray hoodie with the pockets falling off, my Toughskins with the holes in the knees and "buddy" tennis shoes. Grab the rake from the garage and trudge out front.

It would take me hours. Sometimes days. I'd pause to have a catch with Bert. We'd get distracted and move on to pelting each  other with pine cones. I'd rake in patterns, writing out my initials or drawing a smiley face. I'd go inside, sip some cocoa and watch some football. I'd shoot some hoops.

Eventually, the leaves would find themselves in an earthy smelling mountain of maroon and gold and brown. I'd flop down on my back on top of that damp pile, drawing its covers over me, up to my neck. There I'd lay. No clue how long. Usually until dark. The act of stuffing those leaves into a couple dozen hefty bags would wait for another day. Perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps not.

I'd imagine shapes in the clouds. I'd wonder about the destination of airplanes far overhead. I'd listen to the leaves crackle in the silence. I'd watch gray squirrels nibble acorns in the middle of the street. I'd nap.

And, I'm pretty sure that if I showed up there this weekend and repeated any of those activities, I'd not be welcome.

That's not home.

No doubt, my longing for home is fed by the number of places I've lived. I'm 7 x 7 years old and have resided in twelve houses/apartments - in addition to the 5 or 6 "temporary" addresses I've occupied for various reasons. I've lived in 7 cities in 5 states. What's strikes me is how completely normal this is. The average American moves 11 1/2 times in their lifetime. We are a nation of vagabonds.

We've enjoyed something about every place we've lived and have been comfortable in most of them. Mom and Pop's Ice Cream Shop down the street from our house in New Albany. Our big cottonwood shaded backyard on Cliff Ave. We've made a number of lifelong friends, some of whom I assume are reading this. Yet, no where has "felt" like home. There's been something missing. I'm perfectly willing to admit the "something" is within me. But, I assure you, it's not a "god" (or anyone else) shaped hole. It's just a hole. Perhaps a hobbit hole, which would make some sense.

It's not that I don't want to be home. It's that I do. As The Head and The Heart sing in Cats & Dogs, "my roots have grown but I don't know where they are." I almost envy the Palestinians and Israelis in this regard. Both are certain of one thing...that land is theirs.  Their roots are there. The Palestinians are so sure they're willing to blow themselves up for it. The Israelis are so certain they're willing to blow the Palestinians up for it.

I'm not willing to blow myself or anyone else up for anything. But, I would like to feel so certain a place was my home.

Attachment to a place we  call home is something we all yearn for. Maybe that's why we keep moving...we're trying to find that place. I love the story of the Land Rush of April 22, 1889. On that date, thousands of people circled the border of Unassigned Lands in Oklahoma Territory waiting for the signal allowing them to rush in and claim up to 160 acres of land as their very own. Folks came from all over the world for the opportunity.

I'm by no means defending the manner in which the United States...umm..."acquired" this land. But, I can totally fantasize about being part of that rush. Denise and I astride our powerful, newly purchased race horse, Horace. She on the back clenching a rifle to ward off anyone trying to cheat us of our our selected spot. I with the reins in one hand, our stake in the other, ready to leap off and drive it into the ground. The dust swarms into the sky behind us as we blaze our trail. We ascend a rolling golden hill, reach the top and lock eyes on our paradise. Denise pokes at my shoulder to make sure I see what she does. I nod and give Horace an extra nudge. Our 160 acres, with a small wood on the east and a shallow stream flowing right through. The sun would set just behind the next hill.  I picture us clearing a lot for our house. Nothing huge. A couple bedrooms, a cozy kitchen with a fireplace. Maybe a loft. Straight out of Little House on the Prairie. We'll plant corn and wheat and potatoes, have a few chickens. Some cows. Whatever we need to sustain ourselves and maybe make a little money. We'll have a couple superior children. It'll be perfect.

As we speed downhill, to our left a Sooner seemingly apparates right next to the stream and raises his stake. Just as he's about to hammer it into the ground the rifle screams in my ear. The shot alarms Horace, who rears  onto his back legs. I lose my grip and drop like a rock to the ground, rolling away from the horse's frightened dance. Denise yanks the stake from my hand and jets off toward the stream, her silky hair gliding in the gentle breeze. The Sooner, still hanging on to his stake with his dying hand brings it up one more time to stake his claim. As I rise to my feet, Denise raises one of hers, sending his stake flying helplessly yards out of reach. I jog to her, ignoring the seething pain in my back and the splinter in my palm.  Laughing as tears pour down our cheeks, we hold our stake together and drive it into the ground with all our might. This land is ours.