Tag: home

Deep in the Heart

It was hard to miss.

As I drove by the pasture on the way to work, an irrigator was hard at work dampening the sod.

An industrial-strength spigot fired blasts of water 10 feet in the air, before gravity and the wind took over. The water would fall to the ground in a thick mist, allowing one pump to bring water to several square feet of land.

Then the fixture would rotate a bit. It would reload, firing a blast of hydration to fall on an adjoining patch of ground.

This pattern continued until the circle was complete. Then the cycle would start again.

The morning sunlight made all this quite a spectacle. The water appeared as a transparent curtain as it fell back to earth. A million tiny bubbles were transfixed in the air.

It was a sight reminiscent of an exotic destination. A waterfall secluded in the jungle, perhaps. Or the craggy cliff face where the frothy sea collided with the land.

And yet, this location was anything but.

No, this water was falling on land as flat as a pancake. Across the pasture, some longhorn steers grazed. And behind the thick mist was the asphalt of a highway and the glass façade of an office tower.

This was Texas personified. And I couldn’t imagine myself anywhere else.

Every fall, pictures of massive corsages proliferate through social media.

The floral displays are up to three feet high. And they often adorn the fronts of dresses that high school girls wear to the homecoming dance.

Or so I’m told.

You see, the spectacle of mums at the homecoming dance is a distinctly Texan tradition. It exemplifies the school-age experience in the Lone Star State — an experience I never had.

I was 20 years old when I first set foot in Texas, and 22 when I formally made it my home.

I still had some maturing to do in those days of early adulthood. But there was no doubt that I’d grown up elsewhere.

This dichotomy has dogged me a bit.

Sure, I chose to dig my boots into Lone Star soil at my earliest adult opportunity. But I can never claim to be a Texas Native.

The region I can claim native status in – the Northeastern United States – well, I left it at my earliest opportunity. I was a high school graduate, a teenager who realized that many of his happiest moments were found on vacations far from home.

I yearned to follow the thread of that intuition, to try out somewhere new for size. And college offered the perfect opportunity to do just that.

So, I moved from New York to Miami. And I spent my undergraduate years under the warm South Florida sun.

The experiment had mixed results. I was grateful to be out of the Northeast, harboring no real desire to return for the long haul. And I thrived in school, ultimately graduating with honors.

But as that graduation date approached, I was overcome by a certain feeling. A feeling that Florida could not be my forever home.

I belonged somewhere else. But where?

I was sorting through that question when I got a job offer in West Texas. I accepted without hesitation. And not long after moving west, I recognized that I’d found my answer.

This is where I was meant to be all along.

Growing up in America’s oldest and most populated region meant making several assumptions.

The winters would be cold. The summers would be sticky. And no matter the weather, the traffic would be awful.

From an early age, I recognized that my family’s suburban home had a modest backyard and no garage. But at least we had a yard and a car. I know plenty of people without either.

I never did ask why we all signed up for this. I didn’t have to.

Even as a child, I understood that the Northeast was a vanguard of culture and a beacon of professional opportunity. That’s why most of my family had made their home in the region. And why the families of my friends had done the same.

I respected that tradition, even as I moved to defy it. But the reactions I got for doing so caught me off guard.

Family and friends would lampoon my new home, evoking the most outlandish stereotypes. They’d rail against politics in Texas. Or they’d derisively refer to the state as The Flyover Zone.

I brought this on myself to some degree. On my first trip north after my move, I sported boots, Wrangler jeans, and a belt buckle – in the middle of summer.

But as the years flew by — and it became clear that I wasn’t moving back — the derision continued. It was as if my choice to swap zip codes was a betrayal. A wayward trek that flaunted an invisible boundary.

This rankled me.

The winding road had finally led me home. Yet, I was still the only one to accept it.

The pasture was now in my rearview mirror.

As the shadow of the office tower hovered over me, my mind began to wander.

I saw beauty all around me. In the rustic cattle patch bathed in sunlight. In the curtain of mechanical mist dampening it. And in the modern marvels – the highway and the office building – providing a backdrop.

Maybe that vista wasn’t everyone else’s cup of tea. But it sure was mine.

I suppose this is a prime reason why I’ve remained steadfast in my devotion to the Lone Star State. Perhaps it’s why I’ve grudgingly endured the underhandedness from those who reside far beyond the Pine Curtain.

Texas is deep in the heart of me. I’ve found beauty in both its grandeur and its monotony. I’ve found grace in the kindness of its populace. I’ve found grit through its tradition of resilience.

I’ve found myself through it all.

Others might not see what I see here. And ultimately, they don’t have to.

I just hope that they respect my decision. My right to put a stake in Lone Star ground. And to find peace on the Southern Plains.

Home is where the heart is. Mine resides here.

Lone Star

The building was nondescript.

Single story. Concrete walls. A smooth facade near the roof painted a grayish blue.

It was just like so many shopping centers and strip malls across America.

Only this one wasn’t home to a retail store, a restaurant or a barbershop. Instead, the signage on the façade read Midland County Annex.

I walked through the front door, flanked by my father.

The inside looked like a bank, with several partitioned service counters, a number of security cameras, and a line of waiting customers. The only things missing were the plexiglass and the heavy steel vaults. There were no hordes of cash to protect here.

After a few minutes in line, we found ourselves at a counter across from a clerk named Hannah.

She was young and pretty, with brown eyes and dark hair. And unlike so many people who worked in government offices, she dressed in style.

My father and I explained that I was new in town. I would needed to get my car re-registered. I would also need to get it re-titled.

Hannah mentioned that she was new to the area as well. She had been living in one of the bigger cities across the state — Dallas, Austin, Houston, I can’t remember which — but she had moved west to help take care of an ailing family member. Suddenly the paradox of seeing a young woman like her working in the county annex made perfect sense.

A few minutes later, after exchanging some paperwork and a few personal checks, I walked out of the annex with a registration sticker and two new license plates. The plates read TEXAS across the top.

In the parking lot, my father fastened the new plates to my vehicle and added the new registration sticker.

It was all a mundane, bureaucratic exercise. But that moment, in the parking lot under the blistering heat of the midday sun, was an inflection point in my life.

It was July 9, 2010. And now, I was officially a Texan.

I wasn’t born in Texas, but I got here as fast as I could.

Those are the words of a bumper sticker that can be found on vehicles across the Lone Star State.

Many have joked that this sticker was made for me. My parents even bought me one.

But truth be told, that statement didn’t apply to me for much of my early years.

I was a suburban kid. Growing up in the Northeast, I had an affinity for the big cities. The knowledge that others were nearby gave me comfort.

When I would go on trips to the country, I would be terrified by the silence and the darkness. I worried that a predator would attack me under the cover of night. Or that I’d be stranded in the wilderness with no one to help me.

In my mind, Texas represented that wilderness. The stereotypes all painted it as vast, rustic and rural. And I wanted no part of that.

But soon enough, things started to change. When I was in middle school, my family went on a trip to the Grand Canyon. That vacation led me to fall in love with the southwest.

Then, in college, I shared an off-campus house with a friend from Houston. I visited her over spring break and went to the Houston Rodeo.

I was immediately hooked. I was in awe of how big Houston was, how friendly people were and how amazing all the food was. After that trip — my first ever trip to Texas — the Lone Star State was suddenly on my radar.

I returned to the Lone Star State twice more in the next couple of years. One was a short trip with my father and the other was for student media conference. By the end of that second trip, I started thinking of Texas as a place I might move to after college. But since I was completing a TV journalism degree, I would likely end up wherever the job opportunities led me.

That turned out to be Midland, in the heart of West Texas’ oil country. And now, a mere two months after my graduation, here I was. In the parking lot of the Midland County Annex, with two shiny new license plates on my car.

I was giddy. I was excited. But I had no idea what to expect.

That was probably for the best.

“Some folks look at me and see a certain swagger, which in Texas is called ‘Walking’.” – George W. Bush

Texas is a bold place. But if you don’t play your cards right, it can be a lonesome place too.

My early days on the dusty western plains felt desolate. I had an apartment, a TV news job and access to the services I needed. But I didn’t know a soul.

So, I would venture out on my own. I’d try the restaurants in town. I’d lounge by the pool. And I’d go to the ballgame or the rodeo.

Connecting with the culture of my new home was part of my job as a TV journalist. But I was already fond of the cuisine and recreational staples of the region. So, cultural immersion became something of a passion project. It helped me quell the feelings of isolation.

Then, one sweltering summer night, I passed out from dehydration at a Minor League baseball game. I ended up in the Emergency Room across town, getting fluids through an IV.

I had arrived at the hospital in an ambulance. So, once I was discharged, I had to walk 4 miles across town in the middle of the night to retrieve my car and head home.

As I made that walk, I realized the depths of my vulnerability. The ordeal had outlined just how tenuous my connection with my new home was. I felt both obsolete and hopeless.

Fortunately, that feeling didn’t last long. For when my colleagues found out what happened, they quickly exchanged cell phone numbers with me. Don’t ever feel you’re on your own here, they told me. We’re here to help.

Soon enough, I was hitting the town with them, and getting to know the reporters and producers at the other TV stations. Sometimes, we even went on weekend trips to other parts of the state.

After some initial stumbles, I was forming real roots in the area.

I might not have been born or raised in Texas. I might not have experienced the glory of Friday night football games or the pageantry of homecoming as a high school student. I might not have hung out at the local Dairy Queen as a teenager, because there was nothing better to do.

But even absent all of those experiences, I realized then that I had forged a deep connection. It was no longer a formality for me to call myself a Texan. Texas had become an indelible part of me.

Cause no matter how big it storms, I know I can find me a place that’s warm. The sun is shining somewhere in Texas. – Jason Boland

About three years after I first put my Texas plates on my car, I pulled into a parking space in a suburban apartment complex outside Dallas.

I climbed a flight of stairs approached the door of my new apartment. Then I turned the key.

I had made the transition from the plains of oil country to the big city. And, in doing so, I’d started over.

Once again, I was starting over in a place where I only know a scant few people. Once again, I would have to work to set down roots.

But this time, I didn’t have to grapple with what it meant to become a Texan. I already was one.

Even if my zip code had changed, this was still home. Knowing this gave me the confidence to build connections in the newest chapter of my life.

And in recent years, I’ve done just that. I’ve made a new slew of friends in greater Dallas and taken the reins of my university’s local alumni chapter. I’ve also built a marketing career and earned my MBA from a business school in Dallas.

The roots that started out west have solidified during my time in North Texas.

As I write this, I am nearing the 10 year mark as a Texan.

I generally don’t care for milestones, but this one is different.

The world has changed a lot in my first decade in Texas. I moved here in the midst of a recession. Years of prosperity followed. But now, we’re battling another recession — along with an oil bust and a global pandemic.

I’ve changed a lot in the past decade as well. I’m older, wiser and more self-assured now than I was when I first crossed the state line.

But some things haven’t changed. I still love Texas and am committed to making it my home for years to come.

I might not wear my boots quite as often these days. And I might not eat quite as much brisket or Mexican food as I once did. But Texas is still as much a part of me as ever.

I’m looking forward to the next decade here in my slice of heaven. And, God-willing, many more to come.

Texas is home. And I am oh so grateful for that.

The Importance of Place

Every evening, I watch the sun go down.

Ostensibly.

For it is true that I’m generally sitting at my dining room table at that hour. It is true that I am facing west. And it is even true that I am at a high enough of a vantage point to readily watch the sun disappear beyond the horizon.

But for all those benefits, there is one obstacle — one thing keeping me from watching the western skies turn into a brilliant array of faded light.

That obstacle is a wall.

The western wall of my dining room is well decorated — with mementos, a grad school diploma and a photo of my grandfather’s training unit in the United States Navy. But that wall and those mementos form a venerable cliff blocking the view of anything behind it.

Of course, this wall is not the enemy. There are more than a dozen other walls beyond it before you get to the western face of my building. And even if I lived in the westernmost unit, the next building over would still block the view of anything else.

Yes, it seems like an at-home view of the sunset is out of the question — for myself and for all my neighbors.

And so, as the afternoon fades and the twilight sets in, I am forced to choose. Go somewhere else to catch the sunset, or simply imagine its presence beyond my line of sight.

All too often, I go for that second option.

 

Watching the sun set is not an essential part of life.

It pales in comparison to our needs for food, shelter and communal belonging.

And yet, many are enthralled by this experience. Just as many others are transfixed by the view of constellations in the clear night sky.

Observing such majesty with our own eyes reminds us of the vastness of the universe. And of just how small we are in comparison.

It is sobering in the best possible way. For it makes us aware of another concept — that of the importance of place.

This revelation is critical.

For what we do in life matters. Who we build that life with matters. But where we build that life also matters.

Such decisions are out of our hands initially. We grow up where we grow up — the choice of our parents, our guardians or circumstance. We don’t have much say in the matter.

But once we reach adulthood, we get to choose where we pitch our tent. We have some semblance of our own destiny — at least when geography is involved.

There is power in this version of independence. But only if we’re savvy enough to recognize it.

Something strange has happened recently.

With a deadly pandemic raging, much of the world has shut down. Entire countries have gone into quarantine for months at a time. And even in the United States — a nation without a federal lockdown — many people have limited their travel to a 10 mile radius of their homes.

These changes have had profound impacts on many aspects of our lives. One of those has been our understanding of the concept of place.

What was once an oversight is now facing a reckoning. For regardless how we normally feel about our home, we’ve been spending more time in it than usual. And that means we’re scrutinizing it more than ever before.

I consider myself fortunate in this endeavor. I might not have a sunset view, but I have a home I love — one that’s quiet and serene. The ability to sit on my patio, watching the wind blow through the trees and hearing the birds chirp, is an absolute godsend.

Others have not been so lucky.

Perhaps their home was an afterthought. Most of their time was spent out in the world of social interaction. Their house or apartment was simply a place to sleep and change clothes.

Perhaps other circumstances — job opportunities, financial situations or family concerns — had forced them to live in a place they didn’t desire to. Home wasn’t an exercise in self-expression. It was a symbol of their obligation.

In either case, the abrupt change to the world as we knew it must have been jarring. In an instant, their communities were forcibly separated, leaving them confined to a location they were none too fond of.

Yet, whether we love our home base or we loathe it, we now have no choice but to come to terms with it. For the world of whizzing distractions is gone for the foreseeable future. And so, there are no more convenient excuses for us to ignore what’s right in front of our nose.

At the start of the year, I made a pledge. I would walk or run at least a mile every single day. In sunshine and rain, bitter cold and searing heat, I would take the time to step out into the elements.

This was initially a ploy to improve my health. I had all too often wavered between times of intense workouts and sedentary days on the couch. I needed to commit to a plan that would keep me active.

The onset of a global pandemic threw a wrench into this plan. Suddenly, I had to change the way I strolled about in order to avoid getting sick.

But once I got used to wearing a mask and evading other people on the sidewalk, I realized how precious this ritual had become.

Not only did it get me out of my home — often for the only time all day — but it also allowed me to discover the little things that were all around me. The pattern of the stones on a retaining wall. The scurrying of rabbits and squirrels. The buzzing of high tension wires overhead.

None of these details were particularly picturesque or awe-inspiring. That’s probably why I ignored them in the first place. But now that I wasn’t shuffling around town for work, school or leisure — now that I was confined to these short forays in my neighborhood — I found a strange sense of identity within them.

These were the hallmarks of my corner of the world. They provided the backdrop to my vantage point of the world.

These sights, these sounds — they were my version of place. They were integral to my where.

I firmly believe that all of us can build this kind of connection with our surroundings. And indeed, that we need to.

For the more we stare at the horizon, the more we lose sight of what’s nearby. The more we yearn for liberation, the more we feel the walls closing in.

This is all bad enough in small doses. But over a long enough time horizon, it can be downright catastrophic.

Still, it doesn’t have to be this way.

Our mind can provide us salvation from this maelstrom. A change in our perspective can be the antidote to our despair.

And it all starts by recognizing the importance of place. Of fully understanding our whereabouts and making peace with them.

So, as we forge forward, let’s not neglect all that surrounds us. Let’s embrace it instead, with an open mind and an open heart.

For whether it’s beautiful or it’s mundane, our setting — our place — matters in our story. Don’t let it get erased.

Playing the Cards

The bus came to a stop two blocks south of New York’s LaGuardia Airport and opened its doors. The chilly fall air rushed in, accompanied by the dueling sounds of highway traffic and an airplane taking off.

As I treasured this peaceful moment, I gazed out the window at the house across the street. It was a decent sized home, complete with a garage and a balcony that was now bathed in afternoon sunlight. It seemed like a decent enough place to live — aside from the constant roar of jet engines and whoosh of highway traffic.

“Who would ever want to live here?” I asked myself. “Maybe this is where people in New York get houses on the cheap.”

My mind drifted east, to a home about two miles past the end of the airport’s other runway. That’s where my mother grew up, and where my grandparents lived for 60 years. That modest rowhouse was no stranger to the roar of jet engines either. In fact, as the story goes, the first time my father set foot in the house, he ducked each time he heard a plane overhead.

As I write this, my grandparents’ longtime home is in the process of being placed on the market. My grandfather has passed on, and my grandmother moved into an apartment in Manhattan with my parents a few months ago. The neighborhood has changed too — what was once a majority white is now predominantly Chinese — and this shift has sent housing prices skyrocketing. So, despite my musings, I know that proximity to the roar from Runway 13 doesn’t bring down housing prices.

Still, I posit that living under a flight path is a nuisance. Which leads to a key question: If we make our own destinies, why would we settle for a scenario with unwanted variables?

Much of our decision has to do with playing the cards we’re dealt.

Consider this. From the day we’re brought home from the hospital, the house we live in is just home. As children, we don’t know what all went into our parents’ decision on where to purchase their home, or the hoops they might jump through to maintain it financially.

But as we grow older and move out on our own, we think about things from a more practical perspective. What do we want our living space to look like? What do we want easy access to? Who must we be near to? And — perhaps most importantly — how much can we pay for all of this?

The answers to these questions help determine our actions, even if it means moving to a tiny, overpriced studio apartment with no counter space, or getting a roommate or three.

These situations might be perplexing to me, as I rent a decent sized apartment in North Texas. But if living in New York City — or San Francisco, or Austin or Uptown Dallas — is important to others, they’ll be willing to sacrifice space, privacy, amenities and even peace and quiet. Heck they might not even notice what they gave up in the process after a spell of time has passed.

It all comes down to perspective.

For example, when my grandparents moved into their home in 1957, it was almost considered a move to the suburbs. The home had everything a suburbanite might need — a garage, a nice enough kitchen and access to a highway built under the brand-new Interstate Highway System. The airport was there, but air travel wasn’t nearly as pervasive as it is now, and many of the loudest jumbo jets had yet to be created.

In 2017, it’s expensive to live anywhere in New York City. Yet the demand is there, particularly on the neighborhood level. Even with the small size of my grandparents’ longtime home, and the adjacent noise and traffic issues, someone will pay a premium for it, as it provides access to living in a coveted neighborhood.

Perhaps the people who live in that home two blocks from LaGuardia — the one I saw from the bus — perhaps they have a similar story to my grandparents, where they bought the home generations ago. Or perhaps they’re like the eventual owners of my grandparents’ home, where they found what might seem to the layperson as an untenable location to be anything but. Perhaps members of that family work at the airport, or for the airlines, and location trumps peace and quiet. Who knows.

What I do know is this: When it comes to where we live, and how, not all is how it appears on the surface. It’s a reflection of the hand we’re dealt, and the cards we play.