Hello from Bloomsburg,
What makes some place home? There is certainly the physical attributes. There are the things, the events, the moments that become habitual. There are the people, and the weeks that become months, seasons, and eventually years. While I have always been amazed by what I refer to as the duality of time, conceptualizing this reality of existence affects me much differently as I navigate a post-retirement existence. When speaking with someone the other day, a former student in their mid-20s, we were discussing their life and what has been some significant changes. I noted when discussing their circumstances, what I believed important in my 20s does not seem quite so necessary now; on the other hand, things I often disregarded as superfluous now seem unparalleled in their importance. How time changes us, or at least modifies us. Indeed, the truism that is on the backside of Ben Franklin Hall on the Bloomsburg Campus rings out: Wisdom – the fruit of reflection.
As a sort of tumbleweed (something someone once pointed out to me), I have been fascinated by the concept of place, and once did significant work on an article titled the “Rhetoric of Place,” perhaps something I should return to. My connection to a location is a complicated one and has a tenuous notion or intellection at best. As noted multiple times, the place I felt most safe was at my grandmother’s home as a small child, and yet, it was a difficult time. My being there with my sister as small children was because our life up to then had little or no stability. And yet in that two years, my grandfather would battle and pass on from cancer. My grandmother would struggle with alcoholism, and try to keep from losing her business. Neither of those issues are minimal or without consequence, and yet, I don’t ever remember feeling neglected or in danger. That speaks volumes about a number of things. It was more than place or events . . . something existed in that place, because of the people there. That house, nothing ostentatious, the last house at the end of Harrison St. (at least at that time) and the three acres (which are now all filled in) created a home. It was so much more than a house.
As I consider the physical places I have resided, there are some things that are consistent for me. When I had some say in what the space looked like, the atmosphere or ambience of that space, there are two things that seem consistent. I am pretty neat and orderly (and I kept my room like that as a child), and second I work diligently to make it feel welcoming. When I was in college, people would come into my dorm room and be astounded by what I could do with a basic dorm room. In fact, when I was a junior the space my roommate and I created became a must see for prospective students. When I was first married and we lived in student housing, both in Blair or St. Paul, I worked hard to make our space seem like much more than merely an apartment. The same occurred when I was first in Lehighton, back in the Upper Peninsula, and when I got my places in Menomonie. I worked hard to take care of whatever space I was afforded to occupy. From my first apartment to the house and space I referred to as “The Acre” here in Bloomsburg, I worked dilligently to make a space, both inside and out, that people wanted to come. The desire to make something or some place inviting is something not something that occurs magically, and most certainly not automatically. For me it takes intentionality. It is about color and light. It requires thought and desire. And as significantly it requires an emotional understanding of both love and safety.
Love and safety are the two things I desire most in life, and what I realize now is that has always been a need for me. Those needs, those essentials, make believing in the possibilities of something extraordinary worth considering. Lately I have pondered the connection between safety and place. I think it is the feeling of safety that makes a house a home, makes a place more than a collection of buildings. Already three years ago this summer I was back in Sioux City for my 50th High School class reunion. The initial gathering was in the very building that housed my grandmother’s bakery. Even though the current establishment called Buffalo Alice’s, another landmark in its own right, is very different, the memories of the space, a place I spent my preschool days and weekends as I grew up all the way to graduation came flooding back. There was a safety in those memories because the love of my grandmother permeated every experience. Even though the parking lot was now an outdoor cafe for the restaurant, I could remember pulling the station wagon to the back door to load bakery goods for the next delivery. Even the most inanimate of objects can create a moment where we are transported to that previous, but precious of times when we were loved and protected.
What seems typical at the moment was anything but. It was consequential, and I believe it becomes essential to helping us determine what mattered more than we might have ever realized. As I write this blog, which has been in process for a week, I am now sitting in the Little Bakery, a small establishment on Center Street. It had been here for 4+ years, and the proprietor is a lovely Ukrainian woman who works incredibly hard. When I walk in the aroma immediately moves my emotions to 1022 4th Street, the address of my grandmother’s bakery. I am comforted, safety returns, and someone ironically, and in some ways because of the owner, I feel the love of my grandmother. It is a healthy thing for me, especially now.
Bloomsburg is the place I have spent the most time in a single place since that graduation 53 years ago. Between people, places, and experiences, it has become home. From the experiences in the classroom to dinners at a couple of homes with dear friends, from students who lived with me from semester to year or more, from exchange students to travel across the pond to Central and Eastern Europe, the experiences and memories created have changed my life and developed the person I have become now. As I have noted, after leaving Pennsylvania in 1992, I had no expectations of ever returning to the Keystone state. And in spite of travel and other things, I am back in Bloomsburg. It is home. It is more of who I have become than I ever expected.
Thank you as always for reading.
Michael
thewritingprofessor55 