Home Is Where the Heart Is

I have lived in California for over 30 years, over half of my life, having spent the first 25 years growing up in Connecticut. Somewhere during that time, California became "home" to me, the "home" I would long to return to after a long vacation or after visiting friends and family "back East".

Thirty years is a long time to live in one place. But I remember exactly when California first felt like home to me. I had been living in California for about three years. I had just returned from a trip to the East Coast and was so glad to see the golden brown hills of northern California, dotted with dark green oak trees, and the deep blue of the Pacific Ocean, foaming white waves crashing against the seemingly endless shore. Glad to return to our small, rented wooden cottage just south of Stanford University, to a mild temperature winter, and relaxed and accepting California attitudes.

And yet, there was a time, years later, when I thought about returning to Connecticut -- I would return after my son had graduated from high school, in order to spend more time with my five siblings and parents. But life has a way of not always turning out the way you expect. My son never graduated from high school, and when he was killed in his senior year of high school, I realized that California was where I truly belonged, where I truly felt at home. And California is where I have stayed.

Don't get me wrong - in my very worst of times, my family has always been there to support me, immediately and without question. And I would not hesitate to move back East if there were a family crisis, either theirs or mine. My siblings and I have an incredibly tight bond. I might not always have the luxury of living in California, which I love so well, but I am blessed with a loving family, which is something that not everyone experiences.

And while I'd hate to choose between the two, if it came down to that, I know I would move back East. I might be homesick for California for a long time, and I would definitely come back to visit every once in a while, but I know deep down inside that my love for my family trumps all, even my beloved California.

Sean, Ten Years Gone

My son, Sean, left this world ten years ago today, on a cool October evening shortly after sunset. A young life cut far too short.

I miss you Sean. I miss you every day of my life. I will love you forever.

Forever and ever.

Halloween

All Hallows Eve. The night of ghosts and goblins and witches and black cats and haunted houses. The night when spirits from the afterworld are said to come back to visit the earthly realm. A night rooted in pagan mythology and old Celtic religion.

And, my favorite holiday, that is, right after Thanksgiving. (Turkey and pie and friends and family and no gifts or proscribed religious services -- what holiday could be a better than that? Well, if you are a kid, perhaps one that comes with lots of candy.)

I think Halloween was my favorite holiday as a kid. My siblings and I would start thinking about what we were going to "be" for Halloween as soon as the leaves started turning color in the autumn coolness of the East Coast that descended every year in early October. We didn't buy costumes back then; we made them ourselves, from our parents' discarded clothing and whatever scraps we could scrounge for props from the garage or attic.

It appears that Halloween is a very popular holiday, at least in my San Jose neighborhood, if front yard decorations are any indication (especially fake spider webs and tombstones). In fact, according to the press, Halloween is second in popularity only to the Christmas holiday season, at least in terms of money spent. Who would think people would spend so much money on costumes, decorations and candy?

I guess Halloween is as good a reason as any to throw one heck of a party.

Aliyah

Jewish services on Passover and Yom Kippur traditionally conclude with "Aliyah", a saying that translates roughly to "next year in Jerusalem". According to Wikipedia (the source of all truth) "aliyah" usually means the immigration of Jews to the Land of Israel. More specifically, the term aliyah "includes both voluntary immigration for ideological, emotional, or practical reasons and, on the other hand, mass flight of persecuted populations of Jews."

Now, I am not Jewish, nor do I claim to have any depth of understanding of Jewish traditions or language. However, a twenty-something friend of mine and her young family is moving to the land of Israel under the Jewish tradition of Aliyah.

My young friend is Jewish and was raised in (smoggy, urban-sprawling, freeway-jammed, flashy, fashion-oriented, star-studded) Los Angeles. Her 30 year old husband was born in Israel, but has spent part of his youth and most of his adulthood in California. This couple have two very young children, "young" as in two and under. They also have a chance to make a significant change in their lives, by trying young married life on a large, modern kibbutz in Israel. And yet, they are young enough to return to the U.S. if things should not work out for them as they hope.

I myself have been transplanted voluntarily. Not across country borders, but from one end of the North American continent to the other. My bi-coastal cousins and I may speak the same English language but we have very different cultures. And after living in the sun-warmed, laid-back, tolerant San Francisco bay area for 30 years, its impossible for me to think about moving back to the (stodgy, rigid, and frigid) East Coast, even though my father and five siblings all still live there.

Thirty years is a long time to live in once place. However, it didn't take very long for me to feel that California was "home".

What if my friend doesn't like living in Israel? What if the kibbutz proves to be too confining? And then again, what if she loves living and raising her young children in Israel?

All I know for sure is that two California based grandfathers will be spending more time on international flights to Ben Gurion airport over the next couple of years.

Dear Abby

Today's "Dear Abby" column was quite interesting. (Yes, I read "Dear Abby".)

The subject was about grieving after the loss of a spouse. The headline read "Life Is Too Short To Grieve Forever". The first letter written to "Abby" raised the issue of the "protocol regarding dating after a spouse's death". As in, how long should one wait after the death of a spouse before starting to date again.

A comment from a different Dear Abby writer struck a particular chord with me. This writer stated "There is a saying in grief recovery. Women cry, men replace."

Based on my own experience, I could not agree more.

Blog Ideas

Blog ideas - where do they come from? Where do they go?

Tonight, I got an idea while waiting in line at the local yogurt hangout, the yogurt hangout in the pink building at the end of the main street in town, with the long line out the door, as is the case every Friday and Saturday night. On a Saturday night, waiting in line takes at least 15 minutes. Early in the evening, there are lots of little kids running around; later in the night, its mostly adults, with a high proportion of teenagers hanging out in groups, sitting in plastic chairs outside on the back cement patio and joking around with their friends.

I couldn't help but eavesdrop on the two young couples ahead of me in line, even as I watched a group of three teenage boys, in khaki shorts and sneakers, sitting in white plastic chairs near the door. Right front of me stood the two twenty-something couples, one obviously married and pregnant, the other one obviously "a couple", facing my direction. I don't know what led up to this particular point in their conversation, but the young man facing me suddenly stated that "its been reported that most men get married just to have regular access to sex", according to an article he read in some men's health magazine.

I don't think I have very many regular male readers out there in cyberspace, but I am curious if this statement is "true" or not. Is this what most guys really think? I am not sure that my readers' husbands or significant others will cop to the truth if asked directly, but in this day and age of letting it all hang out in cyberspace, maybe you can ask some of your "friends". You know, some of your 500 closest friends on Facebook.

I'll be watching for an interesting article on this subject on one of my reader's blog sites in the very near future.

Moving On

The house down the street where my friend used to live, the tidy grey house with white trim, with the white wicker chairs on the front porch and the aqua van in the driveway, has changed. Yes, the house is still grey with white trim. But the van and the white wicker chairs that made it Tim's house are gone, in fact, have been gone for a few weeks now, yet another indication that my friend Tim has moved on.

But the high school is where I most often saw my friend, either in the auditorium, or in his office on the main hallway of the administration building, right across from the auditorium, right in the middle of everything. And I have not yet been back to the high school since it opened its doors to students for the fall semester.

I did check out the high school's website. I have checked it once a week for several weeks now. Since school began a week ago, they finally added the name of the new drama teacher....and Tim's name is no longer listed.

But somehow I don't think it will really hit home until I walk into the administration building, and down the long hall, to the Drama office, and see another teacher in the place that for so long belonged to Tim. He had quite a few "offices" in different places over the 20-something years he was a Drama teacher at Fremont, usually due to one renovation or another. But he always dragged his old oak desk with him, no matter where they moved his office. And now, that old oak desk will be occupied by another drama teacher, and it won't be Tim.

It won't feel right and I won't like it one bit. But I will have to get used to it. I will have to get used to it because Tim has moved on, and I am still here, as are all the teenagers still passing through the doors of Fremont High School.