Home in 1966. Dad, Brother, Mom, Me. © 2024 Craig Dahlberg
I tried to be invisible as I scoped out the restaurant, a future rendezvous spot with our son’s family. But, as I scanned the menu and the ambiance, the six-foot three, early-30s host spotted me, blowing my cover.
“How many, please?”
“Uh, none. I’m just checking out your restaurant.”
The host’s grin commanded his entire face. I returned an uncomfortable smile.
“So, what do you do when you’re not here?” I vainly tried to normalize my peculiar behavior.
“I work a lot. Fifty hours a week or more.”
The sunlight illuminated his sturdy face, engaging countenance, and a brown mole on his right cheek. His slight accent suggested more of his story. I worked hard to pull it out of him.
Philip of Montenegro
Two years ago, he left his home in Montenegro, a thumbnail of a country carved from the former Yugoslavia. A lead for a restaurant job landed him here, on California’s central coast.
“Philip,” my restaurant host explained, “my name is Philip.”
“Oh, yes!” I exclaimed, concocting a vague geographic connection to his part of the world. “Like Philip of Macedonia, the father of Alexander the Great!”
“I don’t know about that,” he replied, evidently not an ardent fan of historical trivia. “I’m Philip of Montenegro, not Macedonia.”
Because Philip of Montenegro and his wife work hard to cover their nearly $3,000 monthly rent, they plan to migrate into the hotel industry and move to a less expensive area—Phoenix, perhaps. Within fifteen years, he plans to own his own home along with some investment property.
“And then I’ll retire,” he added confidently.
“Whoa!” I gasped, amazed at his tenacity and idealism. “To where?”
“Montenegro, my home!”
“And you know the language!” I gratuitously chimed in.
He grinned broadly.
What is Home?
When Philip of Montenegro eventually retreats to his homeland, he will surrender America and his green card. And leave this gorgeous place in California? I thought to myself.
Like homing pigeons, and like Philip of Montenegro, we can find our way home over vast distances. But when we return to a former home, we carry another sense—the memory of the way things used to be.
What exactly is what we call “home”?
Yes, home can be, usually is, a geographical location. But after returning, we note the growth of vegetation and the altered hues of paint. Despite those changes, is it really what it used to be? Yes, and no. What’s missing?
Forty years later, I returned to the home where I grew up. To my astonishment, the new owner recognized me staring from the street. He invited me inside, proud of the refinements he had made. Freshly installed wooden floors replaced the soft area rugs where we wrestled with Dad. A Pueblo-styled kiva fireplace replaced the cozy nook where I listened to children’s programs on the Grundig vacuum tube radio. The kitchen countertop where I kneaded Swedish rye bread with my mother had disappeared, leaving no hint of the baking bread’s aroma. Things that carried force were antiseptically cleaned away.
Why do we miss home?
What we call “home” is the people rather than the place. I don’t miss the Grundig radio, but I miss the radio stories as marinated in the aroma of Mother’s bread and the taste of her Swedish meatballs. I no longer recall the area rug’s pattern, but I miss Dad’s scratchy stubble and him pinching my belly as we brawled on that floor.
But, if home is the people rather than the place, what is left to us when those dear ones go away? What, then, will become of “home”?
We do not become homeless. Home is not a static place. We don’t return to a place on the map. Rather, our home is moveable. The players have moved on, but we now fill the roles. The same care and love that made home for us, we can now provide for others. Where we now welcome, where we now cook, where we now provide peace to a stranger—that is the place we now call home. We are the caretakers of the caring and cozy places where, years later, others will recall, “Remember who? Remember when?”
“Montenegro!” Philip declared, “is an absolutely beautiful place!”
I’m sure it is. And the comfort we give to those in our own homes also makes them beautiful places.