The Return Home

The return home from a weekend away, a long journey or any extended stay somewhere else is in itself an enlightening experience. There is the anticipation, the buildup of emotion before you pull up and view the place you live from the street. It starts days before you depart your vacation spot to venture back to your routine existence. You wonder, “What will it feel like to get home?” I have found this question to be answered with varied responses each time I go somewhere often depending on where I live, what things were like when I left, and what I have to do when I get back to my real life.

I grew up in Michigan and remember most of my travels once I was in my teens to involve flying. I spent summers in Connecticut and school breaks in Florida. These states offered an escape from my immediate family to experience extended family and friends in a drastically different environment. I would return to Detroit Metro Airport from the sky, peering out my window at the grey, smoggy blanket over the city and think, “Why would someone want to live HERE?” Through my eyes I saw a concrete mess of dirty houses, smokestacks, depressing city scenes surrounded by flat farmland and strip malls. I couldn’t wait for an opportunity to leave the ugly suburbs for a life I imagined somewhere else near mountains or oceans, anything more exciting than concrete and cars. Yet, I continued to live in Michigan through college, and some years of work grounded by relationships of love that overpowered my desire to leave. “Some day, I thought, someday I will go.”

“Someday” came after I married Rod and we jam-packed our apartment and two dogs into a Volkswagen Jetta and moving truck to head to Utah for his graduate school opportunity. I’ll never forget entering Salt Lake City through the mountain pass and viewing the peek-a-boo scene of the valley as we traveled through the curvy highway to the valley floor. “This is home,” I thought to myself even though there was no one there I knew and no place for us to live. Fortunately, Rod felt the same way. We adventured locally while living in Salt Lake and Park City, there was so much to see and do in the mountains, every weekend provided a getaway. But when we did fly somewhere for a wedding, reunion, or funeral we couldn’t wait to get home. We were comfortable there and enjoyed our environment as well as the log home we eventually built in the mountains. I worked, he studied and we met at home where we truly felt like we escaped the chaos of Salt Lake City.

It took me a long time to acclimate to Oregon when we moved in 1996. I loved the high desert--the sun, the endless recreation, and everything about the puffy snow, except shoveling it, of course. When I went driving looking for a place for us to settle in this state I was se

arching for small town living and found it one day on a rainy afternoon drive in the spring through the Willamette Valley with a sleeping three-year old and ten month old baby in the car. Hunter and Phoebe would grow to know Silverton as their home while the neighborhood would watch our young family mature through life’s adventures. We drove to Mexico twice in our camper van, traveled to visit family in the midwest, drove to our favorite hideaways in British Columbia, and took multiple weekend and extended summer trips on our boat, Terrapin. Each time returning to the house we all loved with that feeling of relief once we rounded the corner on Welch St. and saw the greenish Victorian farmhouse standing right where we left it waiting patiently for its busy residents to occupy its rooms once more. So much of our young married life was enjoyed with holiday celebrations, birthday parties, halloween get-togethers in this century old landmark which I am sure my kids will remember as “the house they grew up in” . It was undoubtedly difficult to sell it when we left for an extended sailing trip in 2005 but we were moving on to Terrapin, to be our home for a year of life away from the familiar.

Surprisingly, the boat proved to be just as cozy and comforting, in some ways more so, than a house of many rooms. Each stroll down the dock to return to her Terrapin, whether in La Paz, Mexico, or in Molokai, Hawaii, brought the same feeling of “I’m home” that we had experienced on land. Our feet might be tired from walking to the store, or we’d be wet from a dingy ride back to the anchorage where she sat but once we climbed aboard, fired up the stereo with our favorite songs and relaxed in Terrapin’s wooden belly we felt very much at home. Her dark-green hull rests beautifully in the water and we were so proud to be the ones to claim her our own that we repeatedly invited others over to share our space. We had become confident in her ability to care for us in long ocean crossings, and that had made her, well, part of the family.

Now we are at rest in Mt. Angel and our family just returned from Spring Break 2010. We spent the week at Black Butte Ranch in the high-desert mountains of the Cascades in Oregon. It was a relaxing retreat for all of us including golf, swimming, snowboarding and quality time together in sun and snow. And as the week came to close I started thinking about our return. What emotion would be stirred up as I approached our tiny town? How would I feel when opening the front door? We arrived Sunday in the midst of pouring down rain. And while I was excited at thought of climbing into my own bed and relishing a good nights sleep, there was a hint of sadness when I turned knob and walked in the back door. "Goodbye," I thought as everyone retreated to their rooms exhausted, "see you next time."

Being home here with two teenagers means life away from each other because of busy schedules. When our family is apart naturally I worry about the well-being of my kids and as we all grow older I realize our time together as a family is limited. Happy memories in this house are mixed with tumultuous teenage crisis and mid-life dramas that continue to invade these walls. While our home is quiet, spacious, and charming it means less when the people who I care about aren’t here. So really, what I anticipated as I pulled into the driveway was the future in this house and that provided some thoughtful insight to the present. It’s interesting how perspective on the past or foresight into what lies ahead is often more pleasant and enchanting than the reality of today.

Two of my very close friends, whom I consider family, spent their spring break exploring new territory to settle with their families in states far from the Willamette Valley. They have the itch to move on to another place as they write the next chapters of their life. I wholeheartedly understand their need to start a new adventure and we will dearly miss them when they leave. Our house will be less of a home without their faces here to help fill our photo albums and memory banks. Thank you for sharing your life with ours for the last few years. This Irish blessing my Dad often quoted seems so appropriate here,

"May the road rise to meet you,

May the wind be always at your back,

May the sun shine warm upon your face,

May the rains fall soft upon your fields,

And, until we meet again,

May God hold you in the hollow of His hand.”--Anonymous

The Hill House of Style

This morning I was gifted a genuine moment of true "mommy" laughter in our family's otherwise typical daily routine. I stopped dead in my tracks and instantly recognized how our average bustling household is by nature full of diversity and sometimes polar opposites. Toddler, teen. Boy, girl. Sensitive, strong. Upbeat, cranky. A combination of all of these are stirred into the soup of our everyday life.

I walk past two bathrooms on the route from my bedroom to the kitchen and today each was occupied simultaneously with the doors open and a teenage Hill inside. In one, thirteen-year old Phoebe was carefully leaning over the sink putting on mascara one detailed stroke after another. (By the way, she is skilled much beyond my own ability in this area.) Confident and secure she also made the last adjustments to her freshly straightened hair and overall “look” of the day which on this particular morning was 'casual-hip'. “Who are you looking so good for Phoebe?” I asked in a teasing tone secretly hoping she might reveal to me an admirer or crush, “The eighth-grade boys?” We started to laugh in unison while she shook her head and said, “NOT”.

I continued on my way downstairs, passing the other bathroom with the door wide open where sixteen-year old Hunter was putting the finishing touches on his “look” of the day. I would label it 'urban punk'. He was fiddling with his flat-brimmed black and red baseball cap while placing his headphones over the top of it and onto his ears. That’s when I couldn’t hold it in. Many of you readers may know the book by Robert Munsch, I’ll love you Forever? "Here it is", I thought to myself. "It is him, in the flesh!" The children's book is the heart-warming tale of a baby boy who matures into toddlerhood, progresses through adolescence, then his teen years, and eventually moves away on his own. Through each of these phases of life, despite the fact that the boy gets bigger than she, his mother holds and sings to him assuring her son that he will always be her boy. Until she is very old and the boy becomes a man and reciprocates her lifetime of love by holding his sick mother in his arms and singing to her. He also begins the same singing ritual with his own child. The story never fails to make my voice crackle with emotion when I reach the ending when reading out loud. But today, I laughed. It was the vision of my own son in the mirror that struck me so funny. Hunter had grown out of the boy of the story and there, in his reflection in the mirror I saw the teen that “belongs in the Zoo” according to Musch. I chuckled to myself recognizing this milestone of life as well as the dichotomies in our living arrangement. 'Casual-hip' and 'urban-punk' just starting another day while making mine. Everyone left for school together, relatively satisfied with how they appeared to the rest of the world.

Alas, there is three-year old Sailor who won't stop for a second to fuss in front of a mirror but has proven consistently she is undoubtedly comfortable in her own skin. One afternoon while she was immersed in an afternoon of dress-up and imaginary play, the doorbell rang. A neighborhood high-school aged Boy Scout was collecting checks for his troop's most recent fundraiser. Sailor jumped up at the "ding-dong" as if poked by an electric stun gun and answered the door completely naked. Casual but prompt, she said, "Hi" and looked up at the boy as if everything was hunky-dorey. Now, while most mothers would find this toddler with no tan lines and rosy cheeks adorable, our visitor was not as enthralled. When I walked in seconds later, the embarrassed teen was bright-red and holding his hand flat over his eyes making every effort to avoid looking at the baby in the birthday suit standing before him. She was blurting questions at him one after the other like, "What is your name?" "Do you know Hunter?", "My Mom is here. Do you want to see my dollhouse?" I burst out laughing when I walked to the front of the house to see the commotion but quickly apologized once I saw the horror on his face and finally got eye contact with him. Sailor looked up at both of us confused. Let's call her style 'beautifully bare'. And oh, she gets that from her father.

It's nice to have a household filled with unexpected joys. I can't wait for tomorrow.

A Taste of the Sweet Life

I am working with a writing teacher at the local community college here in Salem, Oregon. Here is a sampling of my first assignment which was to write about a turning point in my life.

I opened the shiny gold, foil wrapper carefully as to not break the precious contents. Creamy, chocolate bliss with a dreamy caramel center formed in a perfect square. I was attempting to teach Rod, my husband, the art of slowly appreciating the fine flavor packed in a Ghirardelli chocolate that often brings joy to my afternoons when I stop to enjoy one square on hectic days. Slowly being the key word. “Don’t chew,” I said. “Just let it sit and your mouth and let the flavor come to you. Wait patiently while it melts and it is an entirely different experience.”

Our kids, Hunter, eleven years old, and Phoebe, nine, watched me coach, giggling under their breath to each other knowing darn well how their Dad loves to inhale a sweet treat. We were perched in the small cockpit of our 36-foot sailboat, Terrapin. A large wooden steering wheel sits at the center of our seating arrangement and we nestled together around it in the chilly, saltwater air as Rod held us on course. It is Friday, December 16, 2004, and the late sun is making our faces radiate an earthy clay hue from reflections off the water and sails.

Typically, Rod eats candy impatiently; immediately munching the sugary morsel so his teeth can get right to the business of demolishing it. I was hoping to help him savor the moment, to take a chocolate break as I had a hundred times before, letting the flavors mix and dance on the palate. “Mmm,” Rod purred for a moment, then finished his square snack off with three chews and a swallow. “It does taste a little different that way,” motioning for me to pass him another, “Let me try it again,” he said with a smirk.

I had an alternative motive for trying to help Rod train his taste buds. It was my tactic to ration our chocolate. Our family had officially cast off our lines that day from Terrapin to sail out of Coyote Point Marina in San Francisco Bay towards the Golden Gate Bridge. We were finally leaving from land on an eight-month adventure that we hoped would provide us with a taste of flavorful characters and unforgettable experiences.

Ironically, we tie up Terrapin that evening at San Francisco Bay Marina which is aglow with a neon marquee that reads “Ghirardelli Square”. The Hills Brothers Coffee building is our protective neighbor illuminated by Christmas lights and the bright city scape that reflects off the water. We are stunned at the breathtaking panoramic scene from our floating home on this mid-winter evening--our sleepy hometown of Silverton, Oregon, tucked in the land-locked Willamette Valley just didn’t quite come alive like this at night.

Despite the million-dollar view, our cheap berth was uncomfortable. We sat unprotected from marine traffic in the bay making Terrapin’s exposed dark green hull jerk up and down and side to side from the waves of passing boats. The marina is also out of the proximity of town for an easy venture ashore with kids and simply provides us a transient resting place. That is okay with us. We had exhausted our stay in the Bay area by touring Alcatraz, visiting Haight-Ashbury, and the madness of our final provisioning of Terrapin. We ate dinner and settled in for the night planning to leave out the mouth of the river and over the legendary San Francisco Bay bar the next afternoon.

Finally, mid-day on Saturday we hoist the main sail and turn into the wind to glide under the Golden Gate Bridge. I think to myself how surreal it feels: We can only hear the swish-swish sound of our boat moving through water and the dull hum of our diesel yet we are passing by one of the largest metropolitan areas in America. “Look!” says Phoebe pointing to the water. A small pod of dolphins pleased with our wake escorts us towards the Pacific and I instantly feel connected with their carefree existence. I smile, sighing relief to be actually leaving the city and our busy life behind. I have no worry, surprisingly, and I realize it’s because we are all together and there is no mortgage to pay, no carpool to drive, no deadlines to meet.

The ocean swell begins to carry Terrapin slowly up high peaks and then down into deep valleys as soon as we approach the bar. Quickly my elated mood changes to serious focus. The frequency of these lifts continues to increase over the first fifteen minutes we’re offshore and so does the intensity of each climb. “Make sure you’re attached to the boat,” I say to the kids in the cockpit, feeling suddenly dwarfed by the size and power of the waves. I’ve read articles and heard stories of fatal attempts at crossing this bar. I’m standing with my feet planted in front of the helm, my knees bending to adjust constantly to the random movement. My sweaty hands are clenched around the steering wheel.

I glance at Hunter and Phoebe on the cockpit bench wearing toothy grins and shrieking excited shrills of joy as if they’re in the middle of a roller coaster ride at Disneyland. I choose to not reveal my overwhelming concern. “Whoa, this one is really big!,” Hunter says fearlessly and I nod with a crooked smile just as we start up another precipitous crest and ride it down shifting our bodies to help gravity bring us back to a stable, comfortable position.

Rod tethers himself to the boat with a safety clip and heads up toward the bow for a better look. This weird uneasiness is all new. Always entirely confident of Captain Rod’s ability, I’m not sure if I should start crying, yelling, or simply wait. Eventually, I can’t hold my words any longer and I blurt out, “Rod, I am really scared.” He instantly reassures me, “It’s fine. We are following the chart just as we should.” I retreat and start biting my cuticles, a nervous habit I’d developed over the years that keeps me quiet when stressed.

Five minutes later an approaching buzz breaks the heavy silence. Rod and I scan the horizon looking for clues and see what from a distance looks like a Playmobil toy set complete with plastic men, a rubber boat, and accessories descending upon us. When our visitors burst through a fog of spray in the valley of a wave, we are greeted by a cherry red inflatable Coast Guard Zodiac boat with nearly ten standing men wearing full rescue gear, helmets, and neon orange suits. Over the roar of their powerful engine, the captain tells us his vessel had been watching our progress and came to alert us of the danger of our location and heading.

Rod determines that our electronic charts must not up-to-date and Terrapin needs to point further west to avoid more treacherous conditions. He nods “thanks” to the crew and shouts to me from the bow to make an adjustment of “twenty clicks” on the autopilot. I obey his command by immediately tapping the left arrows on the electronic direction pad and we turn toward safe waters. Ten minutes later, the swell becomes less threatening and the boat flattens out.

Our adventure literally began with a dramatic turn for the better. Terrapin’s crew sat reunited comfortably in the cockpit after the affair watching the sun sink behind billowy clouds, float over the sea and then drift into tomorrow. We laughed at our ability to leave land in true, spectacular “Hill” style. It was the first of many sweet, unexpected moments during our journey that we treasured for their lasting effect. We couldn’t wait for the next. “How about a Ghirardelli?” I offered. For now, it was time to take a break and pass the chocolate.