Looking for a Home

I have always been obsessed with the perfect home.

When I was young, for unfathomable reasons, I was convinced that a home with a porch would bring everlasting happiness. The family next door had a porch to their backyard and I looked longingly at it every day and wished that I could be so fortunate. Now, of course, I see it was in disrepair and, had there been housing codes at the time, it would have violated many of them. But I still could not understand my neighbors’ indifference to this treasure.

I liked to play house in what I considered my private home. The entrance to our backyard was through a small shed and it was fixed up as a room, with bunk beds for my dolls and a play stove. I loved feeling grounded in a place that was all mine.

Kindergarten brought one of my happiest memories. A big room contained a hinged house, a miniature ironing board and iron, play stove and sink--even a baby carriage one could put one’s dolls in. I loved this pseudo-domesticity.

Then I began to visit museums and saw that some had rooms reproduced from various periods of history. I would walk through them again and again, admiring the decor and thinking of people who lived in such dwellings. It could be an eighteenth century drawing room (The Metropolitan) or a pioneer cabin (Williamsport’s historical museum)—the important thing was the perfection of each little detail that made up someone’s life.

As an adult, I have always lusted after a fireplace, although when we briefly had a house with one it was more trouble than it was worth. Still the thought of a central hearth, with photographs on the mantle, is appealing, recalling as it does family and love.

Longing for the perfect home, I have always liked dollhouses and an acquaintance of mine donated an elaborate heirloom dollhouse to the local historical museum. It is electrified—the lamps actually work and the fountains surrounding the house actually spray water. It has landscaping and the windows are beveled and can open and close. Inside is a family, including pets, and every miniature household item one can imagine: cups, chairs, vases of flowers, paintings on the wall, vacuum cleaners, waste baskets, tiny newspapers, a veritable Lilliputian fantasy of elegant living.

For a while I foolishly thought that once my children were grown my husband and I would buy the perfect house: no faulty wiring, no faded carpet, stained from doggie accidents, no bathrooms in desperate need of remodeling. And then I thought that perhaps we could simply remodel what we have. But some other, better use of money always arises and there are days when I actually luxuriate in our simple life and our chaotic house: doorknobs that come off, floors with carpet that is worn and stained, walls that need repainting. It’s a better house than the self-indulgent homes of many.

When I was quite young, my mother commuted from Brooklyn to her bookkeeping job in New Jersey. This meant taking an early bus from the Port Authority Terminal. Occasionally—for whatever reason--she would take me with her.

It was usually cold and dark when the bus left the terminal but I remember being joyous when the sun would break through and I could see the city waking up and people going about their business: bread trucks making deliveries, newsboys on their rounds, school buses on the road, people commuting to their jobs. Like the perfect houses I have fantasized over, the bus ride brought me peace and a sense that the world was operating just as it should. I felt part of a larger whole.

Perhaps because my home with my mother was so chaotic—I occasionally had to go through the hamper to find clothing to wear to school because, as my mother loved to say, “People are more important than things” (even if the things involve mundane housekeeping chores such as laundry), I’ve always sought order.

Now, at 65, I find myself dreaming of spiritual houses. Sometimes I am afraid to move and wake up almost crying and regret the necessity of journeying on. Sometimes I feel optimistic about starting out in a new house with no dross.

I pray that it’s true that my Mother/Father has many mansions and will welcome this orphan home.