I do not move well.  At all.

I knew this about myself from early in my life.  10 years old, to be exact.  It’s not only something I know, it’s something everyone knows. I have proved it time and time again.  I become attached, perhaps too deeply, to the places I live.  I become melancholy and too emotional about leaving. I weep too easily and grieve too deeply. Even moving to a better place or away from a toxic situation, it is too difficult. For me.

It might come as a surprise, then, that I also possess the spirit of a wanderer.  I never planned to stay in one place.   I do not dream of a ‘forever home’, even now.   The last move nearly killed me, literally.  I ended up in the ICU for 3 days in the middle of it.   Even so, I dream of living in a spacious and sunny loft apartment in the heart of a big city.   My husband has a wanderer’s spirit as well.   Honestly, it was one of the things that attracted me the most; that we were similar in this way.  He is without the attachments, though, that cause me so much pain. We talk of a walk-up in Puerto Vallarta’s “gringo gulch.”  I picture myself dancing in a traditional Mexican dress with flowers in my hair.  We talk of the Caribbean. I picture myself with few possessions in a brightly colored house where I can see the ocean.

I have lived in 7 states and 2 countries.  This makes “coming home” complicated.  The meaning changes, depending on whom I say it to.   If said to my parents, we would assume I was traveling to see them.  Even though my parents live in a city and house that I never have. My parents will always be “home”.  If I said this to my husband, it would be assumed that I was on my way to the house we share. This house is in a state we only recently moved to and a house in which we did not raise our children. My “home” is wherever he is. If said to my friends in Alton, it would be assumed I was traveling there to see them. Even though we no longer own a house there, Alton is “home” to my heart.

There is really no context in which I could use the phrase “coming home” and have it mean Kansas City.  And yet, this is the city I name when asked where I’m from.  This is the city where I spent a significant part of my childhood.  It is also the city that breathed new life into me as a young adult.  It is the city I chose when my family moved away.     

I have noticed something in moving around.  In any place we live, both good and bad things happen to us there.  Over time, these events are woven into a fabric.  While you might remember specific times as being good or bad, this might not be associated with the actual place being good or bad. Until you move away.  I have had these difficulties when returning to the places I have lived.  If I left a place under painful circumstances, this final emotion is the one I default to.   I have had these feelings when I come to visit Kansas City, until the last couple of years.

My life in Kansas City life had 2 parts.  The first being my childhood and the other being as a new adult who was just starting out in life.

My childhood differed from many others in that I came from a large family.  I am the oldest of 8 children.  We lived in a suburban, kind of ‘young family’ neighborhood and were a bit of an anomaly for this reason.  My father finished our basement, making two extra bedrooms to the 4 upstairs.  It was the early 80’s when kids had a lot more latitude and freedom when it came to running the neighborhood.  I do think, despite the different era, my mother was probably viewed as being too permissive in this area.  I think that she, too, was an anomaly for how we lived, although we were friendly with most neighbors. 

There is a certain feel in the homes of large families. They are never completely quiet, for one. Our home always had piano music. In addition to all of us playing the piano ourselves, my mother was also a piano teacher. Another thing about big family houses is that you are very rarely alone.  The kitchen tables have benches instead of chairs.  Some families are even like – screw this – and just use a big folding table like you would see in a fellowship hall.  Meals are made in huge portions.  (To this day I have trouble appropriately gauging recipes, I nearly always make too much.)  Older kids help care for younger kids, in large households.  While possessions can be “nice” they are usually well worn.  Couch cushions get flattened, bedrooms are shared and clothes are handed down. 

I did not appreciate being in a big family at that time in my life.  I always have been a sociable introvert.  I get along well with others, it does not bother me to be in crowds.  However, I have always craved solitude and this was difficult to find in a large family.  Being the oldest, I also took it kind of personally when we would get a new sibling.  I would feel that I hadn’t been enough (as the oldest I thought it was pretty perfect having my parents to myself) of that the amount of family we already had wasn’t enough for my parents.  I do love it now, though.  I appreciate all my siblings, I love the family reunions as well as being an aunt to 19 (although I will never be able to remember anyone’s birthday!) 

My family moved to Denver at a particularly difficult time in my life.  I had recently returned home from college to recover from the end of a relationship.  I had become seriously depressed during this time.   Not only did I believe I would never recover from this – but I had no interest in doing so.  I had escaped home feeling like I had no other option. Once there, I completely lost interest in life.  I could not see a future for myself, at all.   A few months later, when my family’s move took place, I had finally begun to heal.  I had re-enrolled in college, was making friends and feeling more like myself.  The thought of dealing with my moving issues and having to start over again was both terrifying and insulting.   I was terrified of losing myself again, I feared the small amount of progress I had made would be lost.  I was insulted because, had my plans worked out, I would have been newly married at this time.  I felt that I was being penalized for my plans falling through. The penalty being moving to a new state and starting over at 22. 22 was old enough to be married.  22 was old enough to live in another state with a husband.  But apparently 22 was not old enough to stay behind if your family moves away.  This was a topic of contention between my parents and I.  I, probably too stubbornly, refused to move.  On the day my family left I had been laid off from my job 2 days earlier. I was driving a borrowed car and living with a friend’s aunt.   I had $150 to my name – plus the $20 my mother handed me as she bid me a tearful goodbye. This goodbye sticks out in my memories, the reality of my mother’s distress in response to my stubbornness.  

I soon found a job and moved into a one-room apartment.  For nearly a year I lived in this apartment with only a waterbed and whatever handed down furniture I could accumulate.  For the first 10 months my living room held only 2 handed-down chairs, a folding table, and a small, “borrowed” tv.  I was finally able to purchase a couch, which pretty immediately went into storage as my lonely year of living alone gave way to several transient situations. I skipped around living with friends and, for a time, in the unfinished basement of a younger family.   

I made my last move as a single person into a duplex with a woman my age who was recently divorced.  She had a 2-year-old daughter.  This arrangement worked out really well for both of us.  I had people around me again, kids did not bother me in the least, my roommate and I got along very well and had a lot of fun during that time.  She is still a dear friend of mine.   She was a cowgirl at heart and, those who know me now would never be able to picture me country line dancing in boot cut jeans with a big belt and Ropers – but this did take place!   Certain country music (which I only hear on accident) reminds me of living with her and how much fun we had. 

During my time in the duplex, I enjoyed a period of personal growth.  I was able to purchase my first car.  I worked full time and went to night classes.  When class was over, I went to the gym, getting home at 10 to shower and watch Jenny Jones in bed.  I remember being very happily single during this time.  I don’t recall it being a goal of mine to meet someone and have it lead to marriage.  I was living a life I enjoyed and I didn’t feel it was lacking in this way.

Even though I was not looking for it specifically, this is the exact time I did meet my husband.  Faster than most, we were married 9 months later.  He lived closer to downtown, on the Missouri side.  I wish we would have stayed there but instead, we started our state-line hopping moves (2 on the Missouri side and 2 on the Kansas side).  The Missouri side of Kansas City has much more character, IN MY OPINION.

We became parents in a home that suited us perfectly.  I wish we would have stayed there too (in fact I believe we could still be living in that house happily) but we were tempted by Kansas side suburban life and keeping up with the Jones’s.   Our second home found us in the neighborhood I grew up in, just a few streets away from my childhood home.  This actually did not go well for us because everyone in the neighborhood was exactly like us.  It was your typical white-bread subdivision and we were house poor to boot. 

We both agreed suburban living did not suit us and, since then, we have stuck to places where everyone is NOT like us. Neighborhoods in transition, where our efforts make a difference, where there is a sense of community to grow. These kinds of neighborhoods contain an interesting cast of characters, which is why we like them.    

Kansas City grew up in the years after I left it.  Downtown has been revitalized.  The abandoned buildings and hotels have been given new life.  There is a bustling downtown nightlife scene.  The arts have exploded.  The suburbs have sprawled out over miles that used to be “in the country.”  There are large neighborhoods of million-dollar homes, which leads me to ask the same question every time we drive by – where do all these people work? 

I love to travel because I’ve found that each city has a unique spirit.  I love nothing more than to set out on foot and feel this.  My favorite trips are those in which I travel with my husband on business as this allows me to explore all day long on my own but spend my evening with him.  I have covered miles and miles in Baltimore, Austin, Savannah, Chicago, and New York City.  I spend as long as I want where I want and move on when I’m ready. 

Another is Barney Allis Plaza, where I saw The Nutcracker for the first time and my love of dance was born.  A run-down area at that time, it is now a vibrant sector of historic buildings, boutique hotels, and, well, gentrification I guess you could say.  New restaurants and stores are built new on the inside of older and once run-down buildings. 

The neighborhood where we bought our first home will always be special to me.  A housing development from the 1950s which hadd been the only development in the area that would sell to Jewish families.  Although most of the houses had turned over several times since being built there was still quite a lot of Jewish community evident there.  The homes were adorable Tudor style and solidly built. (Not quite Brookside but very close.)   

Sometimes, I will drive by the house I grew up in. I see the pin oak that my dad planted in the front yard, now incredibly large.  I see the basement window that was in my bedroom.  I see my schools and the houses that formerly held my childhood friends.   I stop at the 7-11 for nostalgia’s sake and get a Super Big Gulp of Diet Coke.  I am thankful that, at 50 years of age, my memories of this time are predominantly positive.  Yes, I did have some dark periods in this place.  The teenage years aren’t all that great for anyone.  Now, though, I remember most being with my family, traveling to Utah for family reunions, and laughing with my sisters.  You know, just typing that caused me to realize that everything BUT my family has kind of faded into the background.  Both the family I was born into and the family I married into; these are the memories and people I treasure the most. 

There is one place I never drive by, my lonely little apartment where I spent my year of solitude.  That I do not have positive memories of.  Not necessarily because anything bad happened there but because I am much happier living with others.

These are the things that bind me to this place – two colleges that I loved.  Golden Hour during the summer months where the setting sun illuminates green trees and rolling hills.  The magic of meeting my husband.  Concerts at Starlight.  The drive-in movies of my youth, wearing pajamas and eating the popcorn my dad had made.  Swimming all day, open to close. My bedroom, built by my father, with the pink rose wallpaper.  My dance classes.  Seeing the delight in my children’s faces at Deanna Rose Petting Zoo. Going to the laundromat as a young adult.  The smell of melted wax at the Hallmark tourist-trap Kaleidoscope. Neighbors you like enough that you put hinges on the fence and make it a door.  Worlds Of Fun amusement park.  A house, so busy with people coming and going that the door is never locked.  Meeting friends that will still be dear to you 20 years later in the breastfeeding support group at the hospital. My favorite hot lunch in Elementary School of chili, a cheese stick, and cinnamon roll.  The people that I love.  Catching sight of the downtown skyline after a long trip home.  The safety and comfort of my mother in-law’s house.  And, above all else, family.