Have you lived in one or two places most of your life? Or have
you lived in many homes and communities? Later in life I have been slow to move. Here for 7+ years.
Previous home for 20, and the one before that 23 years. Before that, however,
many homes. Where to start?
At the beginning would be good. Hospital of birth in Pasadena, California, but the family home was in Altadena. We lived there several years. When I
was 2 and a half, we moved to the middle of the Mojave desert near the town of InyoKern. Dad worked on the Navy base nearby, an ordnance testing site, and
after the war, a storage site for inactive tanks, jeeps and troop carriers.
Although very young some memories are vivid. Hailstorm on
the desert that led to short term flooding. Snow once that transfixed us. A sandstorm
(or four!) that took the paint off our car and turned its windshield opaque. Also,
family meanderings in the desert to explore for desert diamonds (quartz
crystals), quiet serene and lonely locations where the sound of silence was an
oppressive pressure on the ears as we strained to hear something, anything. Deep
blue skies and light beige sand were a common companion on these walks. Getting
stuck in the sand was a big fear; no help was nearby and cell phones were
not even a fanciful dream.
I remember hot air and sun on my bare legs. I recall the
sting of sand hitting tender legs in the wind. I remember the smell of dessert,
and the stink following a brief rain shower.
By 5 years of age, we returned to the home in Altadena. This
town was a suburb of Pasadena and did not have a well-defined downtown shopping
district. For that we went into Pasadena where our doctors and major retailers
were located. Schools and shops and churches were near but so were horse farms,
golf courses and the foothills. The San Gabriel Mountains soared over our
backyard, including Mount Wilson and its early, famed observatory. Our street
was lined with towering palm trees bending ever so gently in the wind. Southern California weather was golden and soft, warm and gentle.
In the early 50’s we built a new home in Glendora, a small
town of 5000. Again, it was nestled at the bottom of the foothills, below Mount
Baldy and more of the San Gabriel mountains. Our home was built in an orange
grove and we were the first family on our street. Before the other homes were built,
we walked through endless rows of orange and lemon trees, sampling ripe oranges
fresh from the tree. How refreshing on a warm afternoon! We stayed in Glendora
only a year; dad transferred to a new job in Pittsfield, Massachusetts.
The summer of our move the family trekked cross county on a
2+ week vacation. From the shores of the Pacific to the green mountains of the
Berkshire Hills of western Massachusetts. The trip was an odyssey. From mountains
and deserts through high plains, the breadbasket of the Midwest and on to the
green, green east coast states. Flora and fauna were like nothing we had ever
seen. The culture was even more stark. The history was that of early America. We had learned the story of Father Junipero Sera and his settling of
missions along the California coastline. The Spanish exploration of the western
lands that eventually became settled as California and American territory.
Cowboys, Indians, snakes and bears were part of our early childhood. But then
came New England and its culture’s weight.
Pittsfield was the winter home of skiing. New York City
dwellers visited often as an escape to thrill in the wonderland of snow in the
Berkshires. In the fall those same folks flocked to our surroundings to witness
nature’s shift from green to autumn’s riot of color. Then in the
summer months we were home to the Boston Symphony at Tanglewood, dance at Jacob’s
Pillow, early renaissance music at South Mountain Music Festival and of course
countless summer stock theaters throughout the region. The Berkshires were a
mecca of culture year round. It was special, especially for a family raised in
the rough and tumble west. We were 120 miles west of Boston and 150 miles north of New York City.
Oh, and the winters filled with snow and cold winds. We were
not used to that, no; not used to it at all. I remember trying to ice skate for
the first time; didn’t do well; in fact never attempted it again! And no
skiing, either; that was simply too cold, what with wet snow jammed
down the shoes and boots. It hurt. It ached. All I wanted was warm and dry
homebound conditions. I waited for more civilized temps.
After six years in Massachusetts (we had explored all New
England on many vacations and weekend trips) we moved to upstate New York,
Syracuse to be accurate. The snow belt. Tons of white stuff, constantly. And rolling
farmlands reminiscent of England’s topography. Beautiful regions complete with
the Finger Lakes and dells. But oh, those winters. Brutal. Tire chains. Constant
snow shoveling and thundering snow plows built by Oshkosh. Heavy duty and big.
I graduated from high school in Syracuse but then attended
college in Illinois (Knox College, Galesburg, Ill.). After four years there I remained
in Illinois for my first career position, graduate school (2) and a career varied
and challenging but fun. I’ve remained here ever since. But homes were in
Cicero, Oak Park, Chicago (University of Chicago campus and then Lakeview on
Lake Shore Drive), then Wheaton and the suburban life for 50+ years.
With a plethora of homes, I struggle to remember the
placement of bathrooms, bedrooms, backyard features and whatnot. On the desert
my sister and I shared a bedroom while my brother’s bedroom was a converted
sunporch that was cold on winter nights and sandy the rest of the year. We
lived in Navy housing units for the families of civil engineers. The Altadena
home with large trees to climb and mountains to explore. High up we could see
the ocean but only if the day was clear of smog.
Amazing the wealth of memories of mundane things popping to
mind when least expected. The smell of a place; the breeze felt gently on the
skin. The sounds, too. Together these trigger times remembered of long ago. You too?
February 16, 2021