Reading through my fellow students’ blogs, I wasn’t that surprised to find that a majority of those I selected to read associated Home with a sense of security. A few I read also brought in the aspect of a pet that brings a sense of Home to them. Another common theme was family; family dinners; memories tied to extended family members. I feel like these are all safely assumed similarities I had before starting this assignment and reading others’ stories just confirmed in my mind what I already felt I knew.

The sense of security that Home brings was present in a few blogs, though not all. I feel like this has to do with the questioning of Home these blogs brought up.

What was complicated to me was the fact that every blog that I read questioned where “Home” was. Nearly everyone that I read had moved from either a different Canadian province or from a completely different country. Granted most of these moves generally happened at a young age, some of them seemed to be more recent, happening in the blogger’s adulthood.

It is such a strange concept to me to question where Home is, but then again I’ve been lucky. I currently am typing this assignment up from my childhood home; my parents are downstairs talking about something lively; their voices are traveling up the stairway. The only difference being that my childhood has been somewhat erased through the years.

Perhaps the easiest eraser to explain is the paint on the walls of the room I am residing in. It was once the playroom for my brother and me. I had drawn on the walls with a pen my dad gave me when I was six or so, being caught by my mother and instantly breaking out into tears. In the past eight years I’ve painted it, twice. It became my room after my brother moved out as it was much bigger than my childhood bedroom.

The bigger eraser, that is a little more difficult to talk about for me, has to do with the renovations that happened of the result of a house fire in 2015. All the drywall had to be replaced (the excepting being the playroom as the door was closed and escaped smoke damage) so not even the scars of playtime with my brother remain.

Despite these changes to the house, it will always be Home because of the familiarity of the layout. Even the few years I spent living with an ex-partner, every time I walked through the front door of my parents’ place, it just felt right. It was, and always will be, Home.

“Weekend at the Mountain Lodge” by Anita Skinner. Puzzle by Stand Out Puzzles from West Kelowna, BC. Picture taken by myself from the ‘puzzle corner’ in my childhood home. I felt it was a good embodiment of more elements I consider of home. Puzzling; the Canadian Flag; camping; fresh water source. The list goes on.

Blogs Cited

Collins, Zac. “Blog 2:2 :: Where the Heart Is.” Englitwithzac, 2020, https://blogs.ubc.ca/englitwithzac/. Accessed Feb 15, 2020.

McConnell, Aiden. “Assignment 2:2 – There’s No Place Like Home.” Canadian Literature Blog, 2020, https://blogs.ubc.ca/engl372aidan/2021/02/10/assignment-22-theres-no-place-like-home/. Accessed Feb 15, 2020.

Nikoo, Mia. “Where The Heart Is.” Literary Traveller, 2020, https://blogs.ubc.ca/mianikoo/. Accessed Feb 15, 2020.

Rance, Holly. “Coming Home.” Rediscovering a Nation: A Study of The Power of Stories, 2020, https://blogs.ubc.ca/hollyrance/. Accessed Feb 15, 2020.

Stewart, Samantha. “Jumping Waves.” Rocks, Tress, Water, 2020, https://blogs.ubc.ca/rockstreeswater/. Accessed Feb 15, 2020.

Yamanaka-Leclerc, Leo. “2:2: Home.” English 372 – Canadian Literature, 2020, https://blogs.ubc.ca/english372leoyamanakaleclerc/. Accessed Feb 15, 2020

Work Cited

Skinner, Anita. Weekend at the Mountain Lodge. Stand Out Puzzles, https://standoutpuzzles.com/product/weekend-at-the-mountain-lodge/?v=4326ce96e26c. Accessed Feb 15, 2020.

Waiting for Summer. The Summer that may never return. Yet that is hoped for. For what is time to a cat? Are we all cats now in our understanding of time and place? Bean credit to Toshinori, my cat.

Home.

Home is where the car is parked, and the doors left unlocked. Its where jeans are exchanged for pajamas. Where the make-up comes off and the hair is let down. Home is a sense of security; of peace of mind; of relaxation.

Home is where lifetime advice resides in the library of my parents’ minds.

Dad’s is filled with the practical. How to change your cars’ oil; the proper way to mow a lawn; when the right time to invest is the stock market is.

Mom’s is more spiritual, but still holds the same value. How to be true to yourself; follow your heart, but with a touch of brainpower mixed in; don’t cry for him, he doesn’t matter, what matters is your own happiness.

Home is where responsibility awakens.

In my younger years, it was in the form of pulling the smallest weeds from the garden. Making sure Mom’s plants got watered while she was busy at work. The responsibilities Mom gave were about the growth and addition of new life in the house. Dad’s were about its removal. The trash. Have you removed all the garbage from the upstairs? Take out the recycling. Take out the compost.

Being older, responsibilities have shifted. Barely. Its still weed the garden, water the plants, take out the trash, recycling, compost. But now it includes bills. Bills, bills, bills, bills, bills. Have you paid your car bill? Yes. Student loans? No. Electrical? Gas? Water? Life? Yes. No. No. Yes?

Home is where the love is.

Love in the form of fuzzy little bodies with cold little noses. The four-legged creature that cries when I’m not there, and cries again when I am. Who insists that the bed is entirely made for them, but will allow my presence as long as are cuddles included.

Yes, I fed you. Look! Your bowl is right there. Food! Eat it. No don’t cry at me; that’s all you’re getting. Okay fine. One treat. Maybe two. But that’s it! Maybe one more for the road.

Home is where the fun happens.

Mostly individual oriented. Novels read. Video games played. Cookies baked. Simple joys that can be shared either physically or spiritually through story telling.

Some are group oriented. Outdoor walks through the garden. Badminton on the front lawn. Marshmallow roasting over an open fire. Memories created together to last a lifetime.

Home is where school happens.

Where one rolls out of bed mere minutes before class starts, hair half a mess, pajamas on. There’s no webcam, so no one knows that a shower is desperately needed. What does it matter anyways? Days no longer exist as we are just existing; indefinitely.

Without the scheduled hours of class, time does not exist. Assignments still get completed, but the urgency is gone.

Perpetual relaxation.

Why be stressed when you never leave your house anyways? When truly nothing really matters when it comes down to it. It will get done. Eventually. When I feel like it.

If you had asked for a definition of Home a year ago, you may have gotten similar answers. Perhaps with the addition of where memories with loved ones are made. Home was a place of traditions fulfilled. Where the turkey was served. Where we would gather together to play board games until the wee hours of the morning before crashing on the couch, still half drunk from laughter and maybe too much wine.

But Home no longer has that laughter.

Home is more of a bunker now. It still holds the same value of safety, but it comes with a new sense of us versus them; uninfected versus infected; alive versus dead.

Home is where the disease isn’t.