The week before February break had been very stressful, and I’d been looking forward to a visit up to Wolfeboro, New Hampshire to see my dad and sister.
When I texted my sister, Erin (yes, “Eric and Erin,” I know) to see if we could come up a day early to beat a snow storm, she replied with the best text I’ve ever received: “You got it, sweet cheeks! I’m making lasagna and quiche, and I’ll teach you guys how to make focaccia, and we’ll watch movies, read books, and take lots of naps!”
I was going home, though what “going home” means has changed significantly as I progress further into middle-age. I’ve realized home is not just a place for me, it’s a feeling. Familiar places, faces, objects or a comforting meal can give you that sense of being right where you belong. And home is all tied together by memories — the old ones we share and the new ones we make.
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In college and into my 20s, “home” was where my stuff was. My bedroom, my books, my souvenirs and awards from childhood. When my parents divorced and sold our house decades ago, a few boxes of my old things were placed in storage and the rest were thrown out. That definition of “home” went into the trash, just as my old stuffed animals did.
Wolfeboro, a town that relies on lake vacation nostalgia, hasn’t changed much in the last 30 years. A lot of the same businesses are still there from when I was a kid. Black’s Gift Shop is still the place to get candy, and pastries come from the Yum Yum Shop. In the summer, we get the best ice cream in town from Bailey’s. These places and the treats they sell make the town feel like home.
The first full day visiting my dad and sister did in fact bring a blizzard, and I spent a lot of time standing in front of the wood stove that has followed my family from house to house for 40 years. I showed my youngest daughter how dropping bits of snow on its top makes balls of water that bounce and sizzle for a few seconds before disappearing completely. As I warmed my buns against it, that wood stove felt like home.
Erin follows through on her text. She walks us through making focaccia and I eat far too much lasagna. There are naps and movies and books, and as always, many stories shared about our family. That’s really what makes this place “home” to me. Familiar places and objects are nice, but people and the stories we remember are what’s most important.
After three days, the kids and I are ready to “go home” — the home my wife and I have built here in Belmont. As our kids get older and start to move away, I can only hope we’ve replicated that sense of “home” for them. Maybe Rancatore’s will be their Bailey’s. Perhaps the bookshelves that line our walls will be their wood stove. This is where they’ve made their first friends, where we’ve cooked favorite meals together, and had plenty of high jinks. With each new memory, a home is created in the process. A home they can return to in the future, and a sense of home they can take with them wherever they go next.