A sense of place
In my chat feed, a photo. Son #2 with his bike, out to start the season. Standing at the end of the driveway, in front of a very familiar house. My first thought, of course: “Is he a homing pigeon, at heart?”
I moved too often to have any real attachment to a house. For my children, a very different scenario. The same street number from birth to solo flight. In fact, even though each of them has “moved” a number of times, I’m sure that a special place remains. There. I hinted at the idea, but so far none have confirmed what I know.
My special places belong to a more public group. That university residence, where I piled my stuff for better than five years counts high on the list. It doesn’t matter that “they” gutted the interior, to repurpose the space into classrooms and tiny offices. I used to live there, in that corner. That window was mine, and I changed from a teenager to someone ready for prime time, right there. You can’t take that away, Mr. Building Manager.
There have been a few other locations. The house mentioned in the first paragraph. The homes of my two sets of grandparents. This house, eventually. Pretty much everything else is gone, proof that I’m passing along a time line. There are occasional photos, but the real appreciation of place is internalized. I read somewhere that those of Celtic blood are attached to place, rather than time or people. I believe that.
