My family and I moved seven times from when I was born until I finished high school. That's seven different houses, seven different cities, five different states, five different school districts. Texas, North Dakota, Montana, Colorado, and New Mexico.
My dad worked for Burlington Northern Santa Fe, a railroad company, and was climbing up the corporate ladder throughout my childhood. Each promotion he received meant relocation for my family and I. We came and went, never planting roots, never staying to smell the flowers.
Being the new kid at school that many times was a lot of work. I had to try to make friends each time— talk to people, put myself out there. Somehow, I always managed it, and now as I look back over the vast sweep of my childhood settings, I can name a few people from almost each place that I still talk to and care about deeply.
Despite this, finding a new house, setting up, getting established, making friends, and then leaving only a few years later never got any easier. The place I had considered home, and the person I had been there, was demolished just as rapidly as it had assembled.
I came to feel that I had no home. People stayed in their houses for a long time - some of my friends had been in their houses for their entire lives. When they thought of the word "home," there was no question where that was for them. It meant their comfortable, familiar houses with the rooms where they had always been and light switches that they actually had memorized which lights each turned on.
But not me. Where was home for me? I had no stable setting. By the time my family moved to Keller, Texas the summer before I began high school, the longest we had lived anywhere was four years. That felt like an eternity to me, and it was the length of time I spent in Keller before I moved to Lubbock for college, where I spent four years and then moved to Austin.
Growing up, I knew that my definition of the word "home" was an exception to how most people defined it. For me, it was not a place. For me, it was the people I was with. My family— my mom, my dad, my two brothers, and for most of my childhood, our basset hound, Haley. These were the stable people in my life, the people who were in flux with me when most people seemed to stay static. How I envied those who did not have to leave! Even though I formed deep emotional attachments to each house and each place we lived, against my wisest judgments; even though I felt my heart get ripped out of my chest each time we left a place for good; there was solace in knowing that I had my family, my only stability.
The closest I ever felt to what most people mean when they say "home" is my grandparents' house in Minnesota. For many years, my dad and I went in December to celebrate Christmas with Grandma June and Grandpa Gerry. The snow, the cold, the Christmas lights, the cozy little home they lived in, the Swedish decorations, the baked goods I help my grandma make, the warm fuzzy feelings— it all felt very Christmassy, very warm, very homey. Sometimes people would ask me, "Why do you visit Minnesota in December?" But they didn't understand that there was nothing I'd rather do in December.
My grandparents were wonderful hosts. They always made me feel right at home. My grandma was doting. She paid meticulous attention to the meals she prepared, to the questions she asked about my life, and to the Christmas decorations in her house. She and I liked to bake together. We made chocolate chip cookies, Swedish spritz cookies, white cake with chocolate icing, and many more delicious goodies. It was our way of bonding. She'd show me the correct way to do things: taking time to actually sift the flour instead of just throwing it in; using the back side of a knife to scrape off excess sugar in a measuring cup; and so on. She was very patient with me, always. She took a genuine interest in my life, and compassionately listened to anything I had to tell her. She would pick up the books I had brought to read and ask me about them. She was very accepting of my character quirks. One time, she offered to send me copies of "Our Daily Bread," a publication of daily Bible scripture and guidance, but only if I was "at all interested." Without me having to explain, she somehow knew that my relationship to religion was different from hers. And she accepted that with a grace and tolerance I had not previously known from people from her generation.
What a gift.
My grandfather was a wonderful man, a sight to behold— tall, strong, and always dressed in pressed pants tucked into a collared shirt, even if it was eight in the morning. He had a sparkle in his eye. Really, he did; I don't mean that figuratively. I always admired his quick wit, his ability to generate intelligent quips so easily. He was always either reading the newspaper or fixing something around the house. During dinner, he would ask thoughtful questions to everyone. One time, he spent a good hour really trying to understand my job at the University of Texas at Austin, asking thorough questions about my duties and the purposes of my work that I felt would bore just about anyone except for him. His mind was expansive: an engineer by education and training, he always wanted to learn, to figure things out, to make them better.
Being in my grandparents' company was special. Since they lived so far away from me, we only got together once or twice a year at most. My favorite times were the few winter days I'd spend in their house. Sometimes, my brothers would come along, and so would my auntie Joy and uncle Walt. My cousins Amanda, Sam, and William and their families would come over on Sunday after church, and I'd get to see all of them, learn about how their lives were panning out. These were times of true joy: laughter, good food, and a sense of belonging that I rarely felt in my history of moving dutifully from one place to another. In their cozy Minnesota home, I was among my ancestors and my relatives. I was accepted despite my quirks, and supported in whatever endeavor I was pursuing at the moment. I was allowed to be myself, to laugh, to revel in the company that I'd soon have to leave.
What a gift!
Now that both my grandma and my grandpa have passed on, I feel the heart-wrenching loss of two people I loved dearly as well as the devastating loss of a home. But more than anything, I feel gratitude. Gratitude, for the love and compassion we shared together. Gratitude for the stability they provided for me throughout my changing life. For the knowledge they shared with me about their history and culture; our history and culture. I never paid much reverence to my body before, being subject to the cruel standards of Western beauty. But now, I look at myself and I am filled with a dignity I had not thought possible. I carry on my grandparents' blood, their wisdom, their legacy.
What an honor.
I just celebrated my four-year anniversary living in Austin, and I know I won't stay here, although I love it. There is more for me out there, and I plan to go find it. Home is where I make it. I know that now. But wherever I go, I will bring them with me. I have pictures of them on a shelf in my room, and I look at them often, wishing I could update them about my life, ask them questions, look at their faces. I know that grief will be my constant companion for the rest of my days, but so will pride, and so will gratitude.
Rest in peace, June Dalquist and Gerald Dalquist. I love you both.
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