As I was doing rounds with my team, making sure everyone was in a good place before I turned my out of office message on, I noticed that someone had an irregular response to my 'have any plans for the holidays' question that seemed generic and harmless. There was a wistfulness in her eye, an assured nod that wasn't fully authentic. And I thought perhaps I asked the wrong question, at a wrong time. In front of a lopsided smile, she said, she did have plans. She would be with her family. But it wouldn't be the same. Her parents had downsized recently, sold her childhood home, bought a place in the city. So instead, they were going to celebrate at her brother's house. It wouldn't be the same. But it'll be fine she insisted.
Maybe I was being over cautious, but I felt like I was about to draw a tear, so I interjected and shared my empathy. It was part of growing up I suppose - I'd been there - I'd experienced the change in traditions, the shifting definition of what home means, the feeling that it will never be the same. I quoted what my Dad sometimes does, 'you can never go home again.' For some reason literary adages help me feel justification in my emotions while staying hopeful for the future.
I told her about my Thanksgiving last year, at the height of the second Covid outbreak. I had cooked my Dad's, by way of my Grandma's, whole turkey dinner. There were three kids under the age of 7 running around and two infants in their carriers patiently holding it together as I stuffed the bird and put it in the oven. Miraculously, the meal turned out perfectly. It was a delicious beauty of a dinner, and I was proud. Probably too proud. Taxed from trying to make a Pandemic holiday something other than it was, I sat down to enjoy it, but was only afforded about five minutes of gravy laden glory before being interrupted by bad behavior. I nearly lost it, but I carried the resilient smile of a mom. This is life. Standing up, babies in my arms, I toasted to health. To togetherness. And to our household's ability to withstand chaos.
But this year, I was going home. For the first time in 18 months. And I felt a little bad letting my coworker know that. After sheltering in place, Pandemic paranoia, twins, an inability to travel out of state in order to keep our kids in school, and the opportunity to get vaccinated and boostered, we were traveling to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania - the city and state that I still define as home, despite the many years I've been removed from it.
Yes, it's changed - there are new buildings in the East End, particularly in East Liberty, new additions and restorations on some of my favorite homes in Shadyside and Squirrel Hill, new shops and restaurants, new people who have migrated and adopted a characteristic Pittsburgh pride, new members at the Golf Club, less stuff in my old bedroom, new paintings on my parents walls, more books lining the already full bookshelves in their house, and a few more lines on my reflection in the same mirror that has carried it for decades. But it's still very much my home. And thinking about my teammate, I felt a lot of gratitude that it's still there.
While only in Pittsburgh for about six days, I tried to soak up as much of it as possible. We had take out from Mad Mex, we went to the Phipps holiday show, we played tennis and squash at the Pittsburgh Golf Club, we took a trip to Little's and to see Terry, Anne, hairdresser to Pittsburgh's glitterati, came over and cut everyone's hair, I ran all through the East End, I walked down Walnut Street, I made a stop at the Giant Eagle, I saw some of my best friends from Ellis, I visited St. Edmund's Academy, and I spent lots of time with my family, which during the Pandemic hasn't always been possible.
Coming and going, we saw the lights of the city, the iconic skyline nestled between three rivers, the inclines going up and down the hill, the stadiums, the South Side apartment that I called home, and the bridges connecting all parts and people of the city - a symbol of a place perhaps working a little harder to build unity in an increasingly fractured world.
As we crossed the Veteran's Bridge, leaving the City on Saturday, I felt my own tears coming. And as I examined the feeling, it wasn't just about departing a place I call home, it was about leaving the comfort of what home means to me. It was saying goodbye to those moments when my mom helped me with laundry, when my Dad was playing Chess with Mary and air hockey with Bobby, when they helped change diapers, when someone was cooking for me and cleaning up afterward. It was my brother and sister-in-law hosting Margaret for a playdate and Mary for a sleepover, my sister and brother-in-law helping take care of the kids while I finished up my work and hosting a beautiful dinner for us, the sneaky present from Aunt Dee Dee now growing in our window sill, and the spontaneous hugs of family that will be there for you no matter what. With the majority of my days spent caring for others - the feeling of being tangibly cared for is powerful. And driving away from that is hard.
So maybe, my advice is that if you want to go home again, despite the physical location shifting, embrace the role you played in that childhood home. For me, it's about being a daughter and a sister - not the mom, the boss, the homemaker, and the caregiver. By allowing myself to play those roles again - and accepting the help and care that comes with them - I felt more at home than ever. And I can't wait to return again.
Lauren
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