Tag: Home

What is ‘home’?

~ Jnana Hodson ~ Leave a comment

The definition, like that of “family,” can be complex and elusive.

I’m looking at home as someplace much more than where I sleep at night or eat the majority of my meals. It’s more than a house or an apartment or even a tent, for that matter, even though for much of my life, my address has felt more like an encampment before I arrive, well, at what’s truly home.

The Biblical sense of sojourning matches much of what I’ve experienced, pro and con.

Think of a sense of comfort, for one thing, and belonging, for another. Not everyplace I’ve dwelled has measured up there. Rental units have always had limitations on how much you can personalize the space, even to the exclusions on painting the walls. And who knows what happens when the rents or lease go up.

As much as my native geography and its character are imprinted on my soul, the house I grew up in isn’t. How curious. As for family? I’ve now spent the majority of my life on the Eastern Seaboard, mostly New England. Four years in the Pacific Northwest were especially transformative. Yet deep down, I’m still a Midwesterner, though one now amazed almost daily by the movements of an ocean close at hand.

The place I’ve lived longest is Dover, New Hampshire, in an 1890s’ house that’s appeared often in this blog. As “home,” it had shortcomings, but it was where I built my own family, did some very serious writing and revising, ate marvelous food we had raised in our garden, delighted in some extraordinary neighbors (especially Tim and Maggie), delighted in the parties and guests we hosted, and thought I would spend my final moments within. Well, I almost did – but that’s another post or two. As I told the kids when we moved in, I would be in a pine box when I left.

Not that my plotline wound up following that course. It might have, actually, if my elder beloved daughter-slash-stepdaughter hadn’t whisked me off to the emergency room in time for a cardio-stent.

Back to the bigger story. As I retired from the office, it became clear we needed to downsize. I won’t go into details, but my elder daughter/stepdaughter (those distinctions blend for me but not everyone – room for many future blog posts) fell in love with a remote fishing village at the other end of Maine. And then, so did her mother. My introductions to the place were positive, but even though I had begun some intense decollecting and downsizing, and was well ahead of the others on that front, there was still a long way to go. Besides, I was in the midst of a major writing project and knew how long it would take to get back in gear if I packed up in the midst.

Even so, after a few furtive efforts, we bid on a property that had been for sale forever and were accepted. I was promptly dispatched to keep an eye on the place – essentially, as a writer’s retreat.

It needed, to put things succinctly, tons of work. But somehow, it’s felt more like home than anyplace else I’ve dwelled. As you’ll see.

Like those Christmas shopping receipts piling up

~ Jnana Hodson ~ Leave a comment

Now that our house renovation has begun in earnest (you’ll be reading about that in upcoming posts), the delivery order invoices are creating a file.

I do wonder if I’ll be able to make sense of them at some future time. They’re more cryptic than many of my poems.

Consider “¾ T&G Advantech 4×8.” What? That’s tongue-and-groove plywood. Forget the price, per unit or all together. They do make those martinis in Manhattan look cheap. Not that I’m going there.

The one place I’ve never wanted to live was the suburbs

~ Jnana Hodson ~ Leave a comment

I love big cities, even have a certificate in Urban Studies, but can’t afford them, not for long.

Internet, at least, allows me some important virtual connections that way, not that it includes strolling into ethnic restaurants or great museums.

On the other hand, I’m living in a place others consider ideal for a vacation.

And for me, it’s an ideal writer’s retreat or de facto arts colony.

The ability to walk to so much of what I want in daily life is a huge consideration.

As one neighbor says, ‘It’s my least favorite job’

~ Jnana Hodson ~ Leave a comment

His sympathy was much appreciated while I worked with one around the garden.

So here’s why I hate using a weed whacker.

  1. My shoes and legs or pants get splattered in green juice.
  2. As do my hair, eyes, and lips. (I don’t like slurpies.)
  3. Stems and blades of tall grasses and weeds often twist into a knot around the connection of the driveshaft to trimmer spool. Their tangling soon chokes the high-speed revolutions. Even with a razor blade, they’re hard to extract. I can spend more time clearing this than actually cutting the tall grasses and weeds.
  4. The two plastic trimmer cords – the part that actually cuts the greens – are hard to extend to the desired length or to replace when the spool’s empty. The procedures feel counterintuitive. And they quickly fray in actual usage.
  5. The “trimming” isn’t nearly as precise in its surgery as my wife presumes. It’s more like using a chainsaw than a scalpel.
  6. That means there’s collateral damage. Domestic flowers and vegetable plants are at risk, especially if I bump into something I can’t see behind me. Oops! Sorry.
  7. I have an electric battery-driven version, a huge advance over the gasoline alternative. Just the thought of having to deal with the fuel mixture, rip-cord starter, or other maintenance is enough to put on my to-hate list.
  8. The battery in mine is difficult to remove for recharging. It’s just too tight to get out without an extra set of hands. Help!
  9. It’s top-heavy, meaning that when I’m trying to clear those tangles in No. 3 or am trying to store it in the shed, it wants to roll over inconveniently or just fall over.
  10. They’re noisy, even the electric-battery versions like ours.

Would herbicides, which we don’t use, do the job better? (Satan, get thee behind me.)

Does anyone else savor cornmeal mush?

~ Jnana Hodson ~ Leave a comment

It was a favorite breakfast when I was growing up in Ohio, but not an everyday offering.

First, it would be served as a hot cereal, and afterward, after hardening in bread pans, it would be fried in slices and served in melted butter and syrup.

I still remember the reaction when I was head chef (briefly) at the ashram and served it for brunch. It was vegetarian and fit into that part of our yoga practice. But half of the staff and guests were openly baffled. What is this stuff? It wasn’t anything like the buckwheat kasha they’d introduced me to. The other half, though, delighted in it.

It’s still not an everyday dish in my household, but I still relish the moments when it comes up.

My wife, of Southern roots, is more familiar with grits – a variant – and also the Italian polenta, which is much more expensive for no understandable reason.

The one place I’ve seen it on the menu is at the Bob Evans restaurants, where it’s deep fried and typically sells out early in the day.

Cornmeal does show up in my novel The Secret Side of Jaya and on many supermarket shelves, especially under the Hodgson Mill label, reflecting some distant relations of mine who went back to inserting the “g” into our surname.

So where, if at all, do you use or eat cornmeal? It was a basic foodstuff of much of early America.