Oh yeah, I don’t really have a house that is mine right now. This fact was made clear when I had some friends over last week. This is my Dad’s house. Of course it’s familiar, some of the things I have known virtually my entire life. The pictures and furnishing are intimately familiar to me, I can recite when we got them and what they mean, but they don’t represent me, they represent my family history. When I go home to Denver, I have my things in two rooms, and the kitchen has everything from my old kitchen, but the house is Katie’s. She’s the one living there, even though we are co-owners. Most of the furnishings are Katie’s, and represent her taste and life. That means our home is mostly hers, not mine.
I miss not having my own home. It was a conscious choice, yet it doesn’t feel right. Maybe this is how seniors feel when they move to assisted living. Is it the absence of my things? Partly. I think it’s not having a whole space exactly how I like it. The chair I sit in would not be my first choice. The pictures on the walls aren’t ones that I represent me. Not having the power to make those changes is what makes me miss having my own home. I don’t think Dad would care if I changed everything, including the furniture, but why would I do that? I won’t be living here forever, and changing things in a room won’t make it mine.
The yearning for my own home has taken me by surprise; I never thought of myself as someone particularly concerned with having a home, probably because I’ve always had one. My first place of my own was in Austin, in 1978. I had dropped out of UT for a year, lived with my parents, and house-sat a friend’s apartment. Before that, I had lived in a dorm and a furnished apartment with three other girls.
When I returned to UT, I found a tiny efficiency off Guadalupe and 32nd. The unit faced the back alley where there was parking. Across the alley were two old white clapboard houses where friends of mine lived. I had the old brown tweed sleeper sofa from my parents, a cinder block bookcase, an old coffee table, and a cheap orange and white formica dining set that came with the unit. I bought some plants, hung posters, and brought towels and kitchen things from home. I loved it. After that, I shared places with friends and then got married.
Being the mistress of the home means a lot of things: taking care of maintenance, cleaning, decorating, and generally setting things up where you want them. There was always discussion, and I wasn’t one to be inflexible, but I almost always set up the kitchen, bathroom, and living spaces the way I wanted it. I used those spaces more than anyone, and both Katie and her dad had their own spaces that they could fill and decorate as they pleased. But I chose to put the comfy chair in the corner where the sun came in early mornings and made the perfect spot to read the paper with my morning coffee. I chose how to organize our storage and where the silverware and glasses were in the kitchen. I don’t have that control right now.
I am surprised this bothers me. Neither Dad nor Katie have ever once made me feel unwelcome, or that these aren’t my homes. It’s tiny little things, like thinking “I need to change where this goes” and realizing I am not the one to make that decision. I can’t change the garden or rearrange the furniture (which, by the way, is dangerous for older people. Dad navigates on familiarity, not senses), or make long-term plans for painting or storage.
Katie does not like to travel, nor does she like to go out much. She describes herself as a homebody. I wondered where she got that from, but that is silly. She has seen me putter around the house happily her whole life. This is good for me, because we’ll be sharing a home for the foreseeable future, perhaps for the rest of my life. We’d like a home where we can both have our own spaces. She’s floated the idea of a tiny house for me on the property, and I have to wonder if that would work for me. Would a tiny house be big enough to bring me the comfort and peacefulness I crave?
There are some people here who are snowbirds. As I watch them navigate two homes, I find that’s not something I would like for long. The time I’ve spent here has opened my eyes to what is “home.” To me, it is an amalgam of possessions that mean something to me, a state of mind (there is a huge truth in “home is where the heart is”), and a degree of autonomy.
That last one is important as I age. Since I have no idea how Lyme disease will affect aging, there is the possibility I will need help later. Could I live in a small apartment in a retirement home, or even a bedroom/sitting room? Would I be comfortable with caregivers coming in and out at all hours? Right now, I think not. I will fight it, too, probably as hard as Dad. He would say he doesn’t care much about the home itself, but autonomy is of the utmost importance.
I’ll have to find a way to put a positive spin not having my own home right now, or I won’t be very happy. Fortunately, I have a few things going for me. I’m exceptionally good in finding meaning and happiness no matter the circumstances. The homes I share with Dad and with Katie are both pleasant and comfortable. I’m mostly healthy right now. I will have enough money to stay housed (fingers crossed!). Things are just things. Lastly, this situation is not forever. This time in my life is a good lesson in learning to redefine what home means to me.
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