Home…Still Home

I have been home—in my home—for more than five weeks now.  This is true for a majority of the U.S. population, as far as I can tell.  We are doing this to protect ourselves and others from the Corona Virus, aka COVID 19.  I am reasonably content with the situation, as I should be.  I am retired, I have no children at home whose schoolwork I need to supervise. If I were so inclined, there are plenty of sorting-and-clearing out chores to do (but I won’t).  I enjoy having no outside obligations.  I take socially distant walks.  Bill and I have had a couple of virtual Happy Hours with friends. 

Quaranteaming isn’t always that easy (see last week’s blog here) and in conversation with friends, “going crazy” comes up fairly often.  I think this might be a good time to take a few minutes to look back at what home meant before the pandemic. I have written about home several times in this blog and readers have written back with their thoughts on what home means to them.  Here are a few definitions.

Home is a place where all my needs are met.

Home includes warmth, total acceptance, love, good food, family and friends. To this day I feel most at home (no matter where that happens to be) when I am surrounded by the people I love and who love me, making food, laughing, talking and sharing stories and creating memories.

Home is where I’m always glad to return after my travels.

Just being around things–my things–particularly those that bring me great pleasure and/or comfort, such as the beautiful old wood grain of our trestle dining table, makes me feel good and secure.  Smaller, more confined spaces make me feel at home. Our house isn’t very big and I’m fine with that. Bigger would make me feel unsafe/uncomfortable.

Home for me is wherever my parents are.

I am at home in houses where I feel comfortable cooking in the kitchen.

My home is the most familiar and comfortable place in my world. A place that smells distinctive, familiar, comforting. A place where I can be undressed, unkempt, unprepared…….and have it not matter. A place with chairs, couches, and bed that readily conform to my body. A place with a warm fire. A place that has food that I like
to eat and the kind of coffee and wine that I like to drink. Most importantly, home is a place where people whom I love (and who love me) come regularly to enjoy life with me.




About Alexis

Alexis Rankin Popik, author of Kiss Me Over the Garden Gate, is an award-winning short story writer whose work has appeared in The Berkshire Review and Potpourri Magazine. She has penned numerous articles about local history that have been published in Connecticut Explored and the University of Connecticut School of Law and The Hartford Seminary publications. A former union organizer, Popik traveled the country educating shipyard workers about health and safety and founded a labor-management health plan before turning to writing fiction full-time. She lives with her husband in New England.
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