My brother and I outside of our childhood home 2008
Home is something that has been on my mind lately, and the irony that our whole lives have been confined to our homes hasn’t escaped me here. When I think of home, I think of safety, and the things that I have gathered here in this small apartment, like a squirrel preparing for a long winter. I think of the violin that hangs on my wall, a gift from my Dida (Ukrainian for grandfather). It was given to him, by his father in-law, my great-grandfather who was gifted it by a stranger he took in. It says Stradivarius inside, but no one in the family believes it’s real. The violin sits next to a painting I did a few years ago, a skill I learned from my mother, which she in turn learned from her father, my Dida. He used to call me his little squirrel with a bushy tail, because I really liked those mixed nuts as a kid.
I’m always cold, and the thermostat is closer to my brother’s room, who is always hot, so there’s a plethora of blankets to be found in my apartment. Mostly because I’m too lazy to change the thermostat. A lot of them are handmade by my Baba (Ukrainian for grandmother, though she herself is an Irish-Scottish-Swedish hybrid). This year I was really into hygge, which I just think was an excuse to justify my blanket obsession. My house growing up was always cold too, though my mom pointed out that it was because my bedroom was in the basement. I saw pictures of my childhood bedroom online today. It looked strangely tiny, and empty. It looked cold.
My parents are selling the house I spent most of my time growing up in. My early childhood was spent in Northern Saskatchewan and my pre-teen to teen years were spent in central Alberta. My parents are from Saskatchewan and I feel like I’m from Saskatchewan, probably because it sounds nicer than saying I’m from Alberta. Have you ever been to Northern Saskatchewan? It’s cold, and there are trees. Lots of trees.
Most of my memories of Saskatchewan are of my Baba and Dida’s farm. It was beautiful and quiet. In the winter you could see the Northern Lights. I’m always surprised that most of my B.C. friends have never seen the Northern Lights. So I guess there is a benefit from being from Northern Saskatchewan, even though I’m not really from there.
I was raised closely with the Ukrainian traditions of my mother’s family. My dad never seemed to mind, partly because the food was always amazing, but mostly because his side of the family could never agree on where they were from. They’re mostly English, which isn’t shocking. I asked for one of those Ancestry DNA kits one Christmas, so I’ve confirmed this, no matter how much my Aunt wants to believe we’re French. I also found out that we might be Jewish. A distant relative relayed a story explaining the reason that my family line was so hard to track; they had to cover up the fact that they were Jewish apparently. No one on that side of the family found this interesting. They’re all Catholic now.
My family isn’t though. It’s labeled as one of the top ten Rance family controversies. My parents left the Catholic church to join a Pentecostal church. So, you can understand my Grandmother’s outrage. All I remember of this time was that Sunday school got way more fun. My Grandmother got over it eventually, mostly because I think she was preoccupied with her thirteen other grandchildren.
My parents are divorced now, I’m not sure where that ranks on the family controversy scale anymore, but that’s why my childhood home is for sale. The traditional sense of home has therefore gotten a little messier. Not that it wasn’t to begin with, it’s just harder to hide, because now when I say, “I’m going home for Christmas”, I really don’t know what that means.