Beautiful Taughannock Falls. |
I always have, and always will love my hometown. Nestled around Cayuga Lake in Central NY, Ithaca comes complete with some of the best food, best scenery, and most wonderful experiences I’ve ever had. I always look forward to trips home, no matter the reason, because depending on the season, I might get to go to the Farmer’s Market, or for a hike through Buttermilk Falls. I'm always overcome with an insatiable desire to go everywhere and do everything I miss about living there when I visit.
The drive to Ithaca takes four hours from Philadelphia, depending on traffic, weather, and how far over the speed limit I think I can go. I meander along the winding highways and within an hour of arrival in my hometown, a wave of melancholy sweeps over me. I’ve become so accustomed to this, and I can anticipate exactly when it will hit me. I spent 22 years of my life in Ithaca, and every time I go back, it makes me a little bit sad. Sad because I’ve moved on, lived elsewhere, said goodbye to my college friends, and the town itself has changed. I realize the way I see Ithaca will never be the same.
Moving on, growing up, evolving, experiencing new things, none of these are bad. Change is not bad. But I always believed I’d feel completely at ease in my hometown. I expected to pass within Ithaca’s boundaries, through its imaginary protective bubble, and all my troubles would remain on the outside.
The truth, of course, is that this is impossible. This truth was forever etched in my mind the day my mother called me to tell me the house I’d grown up in caught fire and burned. I came as close to having a spiritual experience I’ve ever come the night before – tossing and turning, unable to sleep, my blood felt full of little bubbles, my skin prickled, and I sat in the middle of my floor sobbing at 3am, unable to figure out what was happening. Something felt unbelievably wrong.
The next morning, my mother called to tell me the news. I’d just started yet another shift at my restaurant in Denali National Park and was beside myself with grief, thinking about all of the memories we’d made in that house. And I was so far away. Thankfully, my box of old journals and our family photo albums, among other things, survived.
And a house, really, is just a house. I will always have the memories, and the love for the family and friends I grew with there. The destruction of the house taught me a number of important lessons, including the fact that although I sorely missed the possessions I lost, I didn’t really need them. The bottom line – a house, and what’s in it, does not make a home. Memories, love, and family – those things make a home.
Most of my favorite restaurants still exist, Cornell is still there, the Commons is still home to the same group of odd ducks it’s always been, and my mother’s wonderful obsession with creating the cleanest, sweetest-smelling household is still obvious. But my better half, my cats, my job, and my life are in Philadelphia. At the moment, Philadelphia is home.
My definition of “home,” in the deepest sense, will always be Ithaca. When I visit, I do feel refreshed, renewed, and happier than I was when I arrived. But the places I’ve lived, grown, and come to know are also home, including the 1,000 Islands, Denali, Anchorage, and Philadelphia. What does home mean to you?
The drive to Ithaca takes four hours from Philadelphia, depending on traffic, weather, and how far over the speed limit I think I can go. I meander along the winding highways and within an hour of arrival in my hometown, a wave of melancholy sweeps over me. I’ve become so accustomed to this, and I can anticipate exactly when it will hit me. I spent 22 years of my life in Ithaca, and every time I go back, it makes me a little bit sad. Sad because I’ve moved on, lived elsewhere, said goodbye to my college friends, and the town itself has changed. I realize the way I see Ithaca will never be the same.
Moving on, growing up, evolving, experiencing new things, none of these are bad. Change is not bad. But I always believed I’d feel completely at ease in my hometown. I expected to pass within Ithaca’s boundaries, through its imaginary protective bubble, and all my troubles would remain on the outside.
The truth, of course, is that this is impossible. This truth was forever etched in my mind the day my mother called me to tell me the house I’d grown up in caught fire and burned. I came as close to having a spiritual experience I’ve ever come the night before – tossing and turning, unable to sleep, my blood felt full of little bubbles, my skin prickled, and I sat in the middle of my floor sobbing at 3am, unable to figure out what was happening. Something felt unbelievably wrong.
The next morning, my mother called to tell me the news. I’d just started yet another shift at my restaurant in Denali National Park and was beside myself with grief, thinking about all of the memories we’d made in that house. And I was so far away. Thankfully, my box of old journals and our family photo albums, among other things, survived.
And a house, really, is just a house. I will always have the memories, and the love for the family and friends I grew with there. The destruction of the house taught me a number of important lessons, including the fact that although I sorely missed the possessions I lost, I didn’t really need them. The bottom line – a house, and what’s in it, does not make a home. Memories, love, and family – those things make a home.
Most of my favorite restaurants still exist, Cornell is still there, the Commons is still home to the same group of odd ducks it’s always been, and my mother’s wonderful obsession with creating the cleanest, sweetest-smelling household is still obvious. But my better half, my cats, my job, and my life are in Philadelphia. At the moment, Philadelphia is home.
My definition of “home,” in the deepest sense, will always be Ithaca. When I visit, I do feel refreshed, renewed, and happier than I was when I arrived. But the places I’ve lived, grown, and come to know are also home, including the 1,000 Islands, Denali, Anchorage, and Philadelphia. What does home mean to you?