Home, after all those zip codes

What that four letter word means to me now 🏡

Hello, reader!

One recent afternoon, I drove Beezus, my SUV, into the city.¹ Following my nostalgia at a reasonable speed, we went for 25 minutes. I parked near the apartment I lived in while dating Aaron.

I’d always known if we became a blended family, a move would happen. Choosing Aaron was an obvious and joyful yes, but I was certain I’d feel prickles of sadness over leaving that neighborhood. And I have.

My residential history spreads across five states. When the relocations started in preschool, they were like Candy Land moves. Pick a card and whoosh! off to Gumdrop Mountain you go. I never liked those changes.²

That spot on Greenwood was different. When I first toured the apartment with a few others, I was possessed by an otherworldly courage. Typically an overly-accommodating person, I stood in the bare, tiled kitchen telling the landlord, I’m a good tenant, and you won’t regret picking me. Another interested party overheard, muttered this is awkward, but good luck! and soon after, I gained my 15th zip code.

*

The 700 square feet quickly became home. And for the first time, home reflected my values and personality.

Many of my items were secondhand, an eclectic arrangement of decade, pattern, and function. I decorated with joy, more interested in expressing myself than creating a consistent aesthetic.

Almost biweekly, I set out a different bouquet in my kitchen, colors revolving with the seasons. Houseplants sustained growth despite my haphazard watering habits. When I woke in the mornings, I’d open the curtains then stick my head outside the door. I’d pause, peek at the sliver of sky, and greet the day. Since I worked from home, this practice was important. It would remind me there is a natural world out there, beyond my own walls or the pixels on my laptop.

Back inside, there was a kid’s table with paper on top, an open invite for tiny hands to fill the page. Drawings, finished or not, would get placed on the fridge. Children’s books were aplenty. I had mason jars with yarn and LEGOs and magnets, items appealing to the senses and imagination. When kids rushed in to scoop up stuffed animals, I was delighted. They knew at Miss Erika’s, all this was meant for them.

And for the grown ups? Two-thirds of my linen closet was reserved for puzzles and games, though we mostly sat on the couch and chatted. Sometimes I’d find my magnetic poetry rearranged into cheeky or terribly dramatic stanzas. I loved when adults played without asking.

Since I lived alone, I had plenty of time to sit on the floor, listen to music, and stare into the galaxy projected onto my ceiling. Sometimes I’d turn up the music to cover my neighbor’s squeaky overhead steps. I wasn’t too bothered, though. I could always escape to my city in the forest to decompress from work, dream of the future, or dash off some big feelings. I’d spend hours each week walking while I observed, talked out loud, resolved problems, or meditated.

Almost all my necessities were once around the corner: library, primary care physician, grocery store, pharmacy, hardware store, pizza place, park... I’d carry books and medications and trinkets and leftovers back home, getting to avoid traffic altogether.

When I revisited the area the other week, I couldn’t summon the spirit of my old apartment or step inside it. Yet without seeing my former front door, an undeniable, familiar sense of home greeted me. I wandered the dear place and jotted notes. 📝

*

I pass the alley far too narrow, leading to my old parking lot. I meant to write the city about this risky passageway and ask for better signage or traffic mirrors. Still could, I suppose.

The 1920s bungalows are charming, though much too expensive. I spot helmets and scooters and strollers galore. Wind chimes as long as my torso. More than a few meditating frog sculptures. Lawn signs calling for dignity, change, equality. A bird feeder erupting with seeds. Cardinals flashing feathers. Apartment balconies with hammocks, tables for two, string lights, dried plants. A laminated paper announcing Zelda the cat’s passing—“for the neighbors who loved her.”

These glimpses in front of homes and buildings seem to hint at what a person or community cares about. I note the displays of delight, hospitality, advocacy, and occasional grumpiness around me. While I only see literal facades, I know to some measure, we all build and project facades from our inner worlds, too. Folks with miniature studios or giant wind chimes on giant porches all have the capacity for misery and joy. Somehow, this feels comforting.

I say hi to the unassuming gingko tree that, in a few months, will become a golden centerpiece. Last November, I stood at the same spot, inspired by the gingko’s resplendence, and wrote a haiku. Rows of crepe myrtles decorate the streets and I find multiple signs saying, “another planting by Trees Atlanta.”³

After realizing a Little Free Library no longer stands, I check the others on my route. I get lost looking for the one with the fairy house. Eventually I find it, but I cross the street and pretend to go elsewhere till onlookers are distracted. In the end, I find the four Little Free Libraries are still sanctuaries for books, just as I’d hoped.

The heat has me zonked, so I grab an iced tea from the local coffee shop to rejuvenate for the walk back to Beezus. I order the Space Cadet, a floral drink that happens to match the fallen purple petals outside. When my family visited, they ordered drinks here and my brother thought he’d stuck his face in a potted plant. If it was meant as a compliment, then I would’ve agreed.

I snap photos of the dense wildflower garden found on the road verge. The flowers, sprouting up every which way, appear as if they’ve marched from country fields to this small patch in the city, triumphant and unashamed. I like their style.

Soon, I reach my spot on the street. I’m parked next to a message scratched into the cement. “HAVE HOPE,” it reads. My visit concludes.

*

I return northbound to my new family.

Space and time once felt distinct, the rules and routines mine to make. But now these dimensions overlap with two humans and as they do, the experience and meaning of home evolves. We’re creating room for our shared values and varied personalities as we learn to blend, merge, and join. We don’t always get it right, but we display love the best we can.

This 16th zip code isn’t as charming as back in the city, but that old sadness loses a few prickles after my visit.

Each day, my heart moves closer to my husband and stepson. Home is becoming here, now, wherever they are—and I wouldn’t want to pick any other place. 🔑

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It’s your turn! How many zip codes have you had? What does home mean to you? Do you prefer the city, country, or somewhere else?

Catch you soon,
—E.T.

1. Beezus is named after Beverly Cleary’s Ramona and Beezus. It’s short for Beatrice, who is the oldest sister in the book series, like me.

2. Learning I’m a Highly Sensitive Person (HSP) has helped me understand why change has always been extra tricky.

3. Trees Atlanta calls the neighbor who advocates to bring trees to the area a “Local Lorax,” after Dr. Seuss’ character.