‘Home’ is such a strong word

Tom Pinney

As you read this, I am at my dad’s house in Mesquite, Texas, trying to shake off the 12-hour drive I will have just made the day before.

That’s pretty weird for me, because as I write this, it’s a Friday afternoon and I’m sitting in the Forum office with little else to do; my stories are filed, my socials have been checked, and I’m still a few days away from feeling the warm Texas air in my beard.

As you read this, I’m probably going to be annihilating my brother in a round of Madden with two dogs still sniffing me, getting to know me, making sure I’m trustworthy. And the only reason it’s ‘probably’ is because I’m not terribly sure what time it is that you’ll be reading this, so I can’t accurately tell you exactly what I’ll be doing.

What do you think I am, psychic?

And yes, I’m rambling a bit and seem to be writing in circles, but that’s because it’s hard to get to the basis of this topic.

You see, I was born and raised in Texas, in various parts of the state.

My birthplace was a hospital in Fort Worth, where my mother had to have an emergency C-section because I was being asphyxiated by my umbilical cord (which has to be the king of ironic happenings – the cord delivering my nutrients was killing me). Nearly two months premature, I was born December 28, 1990, and I was rushed across town to Cook’s Children’s in a rare Texas snow storm for the doctors to save my life.

Obviously, they did… but that’s another long, miraculous story for another time.

After a couple of years, my family (at the time, mom, dad, my older brother and I) moved to Vidor, Texas. It’s actually a badge of honor to say you’re from Vidor, because if you’re FROM there, it means you escaped.

My younger brother was born in Vidor, too. And after my grandfather was given six months to live, we moved with him to Las Cruces, New Mexico.

For some reason, it was his dying wish to start a church in Las Cruces. We had no idea why, and he still won’t explain it.

And also, he didn’t have six months to live; 22 years later, he’s still kicking and we’re about 90 percent sure he’s Superman because three different cancers tried to kill him about 15 times, and he currently walks without a hip.

Las Cruces was where my sister was born, and a month into her fragile life, we moved to Albuquerque, New Mexico after her lung collapsed and she was lifeflighted up there. After a little more than three years, we moved to El Paso, Texas soon after the turn of the century.

We spent six years in the armpit of the United States before my dad accepted a job in Ohio and we moved there, and while I was in college, they moved back to the Dallas area. Meanwhile, I started my real life on my own and, after graduating, moved to Maryville for grad school. You know this part.

For those of you keeping track at home, that’s four states I’ve lived in, five if you count a few summers ago when I worked at a day camp in Des Moines, Iowa and stayed in Boone during the week. That means a total of 10 houses, two residence halls, two apartments, and one dank backcountry cabin where I’ve lived in my life.

You can see why I say that “home” is such a strong word for me, because – sadly to say – I have lived in my current apartment longer than I’ve ever lived anywhere else.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve been talking about “going home” in reference to leaving Maryville to go visit family over Christmas. But I haven’t seen Texas as home in a really, really long time.

But “home” is this socially constructed place that I don’t know if I’ve ever truly felt. Everywhere I’ve lived has felt temporary.

Even living and working in Maryville for as long as I have been, I don’t really see Maryville as “home.” I don’t know why.

“Home” to me is something so far away that I can barely tell where it is. It feels secure, loving, complete.

Nowhere I’ve ever been has felt like those three things since… ever.

My apartment is drafty, and even though it’s filled with almost everything I own, it’s incomplete.

My dad’s house certainly feels loving, as it’s filled with my family who are some of the most loving people you’ll ever meet. I know, how do they put up with cranky old me?

But, my parents are in the process of getting a divorce, and my mom lives on the other side of the Metroplex, so it’s incomplete. And, in just a few days (as you’re reading this), it will have been one year since a tornado ripped through my dad’s old house and destroyed it with me inside, so it feels anything but secure.

My mom’s apartment feels like none of those things – it’s in an insecure neighborhood in North Richland Hills, it’s very clearly a divisive place because her boyfriend lives there too, and the whole divorce thing.

Throughout college, the dorms and the apartment I lived in weren’t home; they were always incomplete. And the dorms weren’t terribly secure.

Texas feels like it could one day be home, but that’s only because it’s where I’m from. I also don’t know if I want to live full-term in Texas; it gets stupid hot in the summer, and tornadoes aren’t out of the question in December.

Missouri feels like it could be home, and it’s a much bigger possibility because I don’t want to move again. I’ve moved enough for four lifetimes; I’d love to be done and just plant roots somewhere and never leave.

But then again, maybe the fact that I’ve moved so much means that I’m going to develop some sort of wanderlust-y vagabond nomad lifestyle where I live in a place for up to five years, then peace out because I get bored.

Maybe living so many places has caused me to romanticize staying somewhere enough that I won’t leave. Heck, I don’t know.

What I do know is that I love where I am, I love what I’m doing, and I’d love to stay and make it home.

Because as much as I romanticize Texas, Maryville’s a nice place to be.