Michigan’s U.P. in the far-north is my original home–where I was born and raised, and returned as an adult to buy some land and create a camp. Northern Virginia became my adult home while working in and near Washington DC for 35 years.
So, what is “home?” Can you have more than one?
The dictionary says “home” is your primary domicile – which means you have just one.
For animals, “home” is the territory they return to by instinct – and, for some, changes with the season. (Some humans do this, spending summer in the north and winter in the south.)
Robert Frost said, in a 1914 poem, “home is the place where, when you go there, they have to take you in.” If it said “they want to take you in,” I would agree.
The plaques hanging in some houses say “home is where the heart is” – which means, wherever you feel “at home.” That one rings truest to me.
Below, some photos with captions that define “home” to me in two places, including a tour of my childhood home 45 years after I left it.
If you have pets, “home” is wherever they are. Boo, guarding the northern house here, has been traveling with me for eight years. Her “home” is wherever I am. (I realized this when she began to come when I call, whether in the south or north.)
This husky also defined “home” to me for many years, because he was my companion on so many outings. He wasn’t mine, but I loved and still miss him. (He died this year.)
“Home” is sometimes what you create through physical labor. This is 2017, days after buying the land in the far-north and clearing the trees to make space (eventually) for this…
…a waterfront home on a bay of Lake Superior. In northern Michigan, the get-away that isn’t your primary home is often called “camp.” (Thus, “Camp Many Moons.”)
Leaving your personal mark can also help create “home.” I finished this rock border in Michigan before leaving a week ago, to help catch rainfall from the roof. It took months to pull each of these rocks from the water individually. A labor of love, as they say. (It’s not done.)
For cooks, “home” is where the kitchen is, and I grew to love my spacious new kitchen in Michigan after living with…
…this tiny but functional kitchen in my Virginia home for 15 years.
“Home” is also where you entertain, and it was nice to welcome neighbors in Michigan a few weeks ago. This is looking in from the covered porch. (See a man’s reflection in the refrigerator door? That door is a gimmick–if you tap on it, a light comes on to show the inside contents. Silly? Yep. It was the only model available when I needed it!)
If “home is where the heart is,” then being on the water is also “home” to me. I’m grateful for the old rowboat that I’ve borrowed for years, including this day less than two weeks ago.
Nature is also “home” to me, wherever I find it–in this case, the Slate River in Baraga County.
“Home” is also where your memories live, both physical and mental. I keep this photo of my dad (who died when I was 25) in my Virginia home….
…and this one of Aunt Martha, a nurse who lived to 105, in my Michigan home. She was the reason I started regularly returning to my birthplace, the last survivor of 28 aunts and uncles and the family matriarch on Dad’s side. She remains my best example of moral integrity. Speaking of my birthplace, a quick tour of my hometown of Hancock recently…
…starting with my high school, which is no longer a school. I loved school. (And still embrace learning of all kinds, even the heart-breaking kind.) How well I remember coming down those steps in 1976 with diploma in hand, knowing my life was about to change. And did it ever!
Both my mom and I attended this elementary school (which is also no longer a school) and we both walked to school every day of our lives. I wonder how many students today can say that?
The house I grew up in, looking the same except for a restructured porch. My mom’s front garden is gone, as is the lilac tree. Seven kids were raised in this modest house. How small the backyard looks, and I marvel that we played so many outdoor games back there. I slept in a tent back there also, and sleep in tents to this day. Roots run deep….
The road I grew up on needs some attention. How small it looks compared to my childhood memory! (Isn’t that how it is?) I played hopscotch, roller skated, dodged black bats and gazed at Northern Lights on this little street. Also got lost around the corner at age three.
The rink, now a basketball court, just a block away. Here I learned to ice skate, which I did a lot. (This is the far-north. We played outdoors in every season.) Since I was the youngest, I ended up doing a lot of things alone, including ice skating. I still own ice skates,
Two blocks away, this trail was a railroad track when I lived here. We put pennies on the rails and retrieved their smashed remains after the train went by. The sound of a train wailing still takes me back in time. How many railroad tracks have been turned into paths across the country? Many! A good re-use…but I still miss local trains.
The view from my car as I cross the bridge, just a mile or so from my house, linking my small hometown to the university town of Houghton. Fall colors were muted this year.
Looking in the opposite direction, there’s my hometown on the Portage Canal. I remember snowmobiling on the frozen canal with my dad in the 70s, and picking garbage from that waterfront during a school-wide clean-up day each spring. I wonder if they still do that?
And then there’s the stuff that didn’t exist when I lived there, like this beloved fish market that sells both fresh or frozen fish, and prepared meals….straight from Lake Superior! The meals are served in an adjacent rough-but-charming place, where an extraordinary thing happened.
While enjoying fish chowder here, a man came up and asked “Are you Mary Hanson?” “Well, yes!” I said. “And you are…?” (He looked vaguely familiar.) He then told me a story about my childhood dog, and how I tied it up in his yard and left the rope. He was the brother of a childhood friend, with a great memory. Sometimes, “home” is where they recognize you.
The Michigan house isn’t officially “home” because it isn’t my primary domicile — plus I don’t always feel “at home” here — but it sure looks homey with the lights on inside and a bit of Northern Lights above. Moving on to Virginia…
..the first thing I do when I get back to my townhouse in Arlington, about fives miles from the Pentagon and six miles from Washington DC, is to…
…see how my patio fared during my absence. It’s my main “room” during good weather, and the first place I head because I always miss the outdoors when I leave Michigan. This isn’t the same, but it’ll do. For the city.
Within a day or two, I head to the Potomac River for a walk or bike ride, like this 8-mile walk one week ago as I prepare for a hike on the Camino di Santiago in Spain. (Watch for posts.)
I leave these musings about “home” with a final picture of the dog who brought me so much outdoor joy — and, I hope, I brought to him. I sat with him for many hours in the days it took him to die. It was such a tender time. That, too, felt line “home.” Because it was so honest. RIP, buddy. I imagine you looking like this in doggy heaven.
For Many Moons 
Love to see those Hancock pics, Mary- I’m still up there pretty often at our a-frame in the woods.
What was the street address where you grew up- those pics too look so familiar.
Steve
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Love to see those Hancock pics, Mary- I’m still up there pretty often at our a-frame in the woods.
What was the street address where you grew up- those pics too look so familiar.
Steve
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