What does “home” mean to you? A place to lay your head at night? Where your parents live, and you and your children? Or, is it much more than that? How do you feel when you’re home? Safe? Secure?

A home, physically, is nothing more than a house - four walls and the roof over our condo, or our apartment.

Home, emotionally, is quite a different thing.

Childhood Memories

I have fond memories of waking up Christmas mornings as a child and sneaking downstairs to check out my presents. I can barely remember anything I got; instead, I remember spending time with my mother and father and my brother and sisters. Our old  Polaroid prints (well, the ones that came out …) and slides (remember slides?) show us around the Christmas tree. I can remember what my flannel pajamas felt like by just looking at a photo, but even more, I can remember what I was feeling, inside. (And, yes, I am old enough to have worn Doctor Dentons!)

We had so many good times, back when I was a young child. Home was where my mother and I baked cookies, a place where I could run to after being bullied so my brother could come out to protect me. (He taught me how to ride a bike, too!) It was home where my father tended his garden (actually, two; flower and vegetable), and where my sisters had Brownies’ meetings in the backyard. It was where we watched Fourth of July fireworks far off over the trees, naming each of them after someone in the family - “That’s Laurie’s, that’s Amy’s … that’s MOM’s!”

Not every memory is a good one. My mother and I used to love baking cookies, but she probably shouldn’t have left me alone in the kitchen that time when I was five while she went off to the bathroom. Interested in seeing how a toaster actually worked (Where does the bread go??!), I stepped up on my favorite stool and proceeded to slide my whole hand in. And pushed down.

And, there were endless fights between us five children. I swear to you, I caused none, but my brother and sisters were terrible to each other. A Game of Life was never completed in the Keith household and ownership of every cereal box toy was decided only after epic verbal (and, sometimes physical) battles.

I remember one December morning waking up to find our next-door neighbor’s 2nd-floor window blown out and a Christmas tree and a mattress thrown out on the street; burned. As a five year old, I had never been more scared. My biggest fear, fire, mixed in with the safest place I knew - being asleep in bed, at home.

We moved when I was 7, and my memories aren’t so strong (or as favorable) of the years thereafter. After my parents died, back in 2000-2001, we sold their house. Seeing my siblings now is important, but we don’t feel the need to all be together in one place at one time. There’s no single “home” any longer - we each have our own.

My Uncle Jack

My mother’s brother, Jack, was a regular gentleman. He would wear a sports coat and tie when he went out at night, when you could find him at the Ritz bar (ahem, before it became the Taj) and at the Bull & Finch (ahem, before it became Cheers). He would bring us candy at Thanksgiving and take my sister and me skating at the MDC rink in the North End, and to watch the planes land and take off at Logan Airport.

Uncle Jack lived on Beacon Street for 47-years - in a 360-square foot basement apartment.  The apartment was dark and dank. He slept on a cot. His TV had rabbit ears and his kitchen roaches. But, Uncle Jack loved this apartment, no matter what anyone else thought.

Around the mid-2000’s, he started his descent into dementia. Suddenly someone who had lived on his own, alone, for his entire adult life, needed help; needed his family.

There was one time he and I were in the doctor’s office. It was a very difficult appointment, where his prognosis was being discussed. Things were reaching the tipping point. Jack’s response? “I’m going back to Beacon Street, pour myself a beer, have some dinner, and sleep in my own bed.” - He wanted to be home.

How could I argue against that? I couldn't. Fortunately, with the help of a health care assistant (and because he had saved every penny), we were able to keep him at home for most of the time during his final years.

Home is ...

Could these homes be any more different from each another? But each were homes, places where we felt safe and secure, protected from the outside world.

Home can be where we take refuge. It can also be a sanctuary. Mostly, home is a place where emotions are felt and memories are made.

So, I wish you well, this holiday season, and hope that you find yourself the peace and joy that comes with being home, wherever that is.