Thread: Essay on Home

An assignment for class, this was supposed to be a journal entry and ended up more like an essay. I'm not sure if this is too esoteric. Feedback, good or bad would be appreciated. Thanks.


Many people refer to home by saying phrases such as “Home is where the heart is” or Judy Garland’s famous line,” There’s no place like home,” from The Wizard of Oz without much thought to what it truly means. Hearing people utter these campy clichés make me cringe every time I hear them. Excessive use has carried away the meaning behind these colloquiums.

Over the weekend, I had to make a sudden trip to Detroit. My dog, Sergeant, looks intimidating and is large enough to inflict serious damage. To those who do not know our pets, they wouldn’t see him as a sensitive and loving animal. He is a companion I hold in higher esteem than most of my friends and neighbors. Considering his size and his occasional grumpiness, his behavior toward my one-year-old daughter is a paramount concern in our home. One evening last week, he snapped at her face. My wife and I thought for sure he had bit into her, but luckily, he had just frightened her and scared the shit out of us. “That’s it, he’s going to Michigan,” my wife announced, as she cradled my screaming daughter. I heard that declaration before it left my wife’s lips.

I have spent some time considering what constitutes a home. I have had several of them, some lasting as short as five months, my longest- 19 years. I have lived alone and I have lived with 42 other privates and two masochistic drill sergeants; I knew that place was going to be a hell hole on the first day when the drill sergeant caused me to vomit from drinking too much water. Surprisingly, that place has some of the best memories; I never appreciated having a bed more than I do now.
Each home has been different, but each holds the same set of qualities that makes a home unique and personal. Memories I have of home are influenced by the people we know when we occupy a living space. The more personal these relationships are, the deeper they are imbedded into our memories of where we live. Since I prefer well-lit spaces, natural light significantly impacts the way I remember places I lived. The more light the better, but a dark place can have the exact opposite can be just as brilliant in the mind’s eye. I remember feelings of home when visiting with friends. I know the best place to nurse a hangover is in my basement with friends and McDonalds for lunch.

Thoughts of home highlight the best and the worst parts of my life. A bedroom brings shelter during stressful and exhausting times; the bedroom also cradles private and intimate experiences I have shared with significant others. Sometimes I kept the curtains open for the morning light; at night, I had candles lit with the curtains dancing in the breeze. Living areas provide a canvas to express our taste with furniture and art. Those areas allow us to entertain friends and family. My first condo brought me comfort with a fireplace and a reading chair, while my first apartment, I was out of the country for eight of the twelve months I rented. I had a black futon as a couch and no guests.

Of all the places I have lived, the townhouse my family lives in now is going to yield the best memories. Sergeant is a part of those memories. I find myself expecting to see him in his corner or on my office couch. His absence changed my feelings about my office. His absence improved my plants in my backyard. I still wake up at the same time in the morning, but instead of a paw in the face, I wake up to the buzz of an alarm clock. I come home to a laughing daughter. My wife and I read at night.

Looking back at the places I have lived, I find people are the strongest catalysts of relating the best memories to home. There is no place like home and it is where the heart is. How many times do people reply with these phrases while trying to convey the images they can conjure? In many cases, this is where our stories are made.

Okay, but remember, you called out the red-pen brigade. I've tried to pare and preen with only your best interest at heart. You seemed to have so much to say, but your thoughts were all over the place. I don't know how much outlining you do before writing, but some writers find it helpful to organize their thoughts. Others find it too confining. There's no right or wrong way, just the way that works best for you.

[BEGIN REVISION] Home, for many, can be summed up in campy cliches, such as "Home is where the heart is," or Dorothy's famous line from Oz, "There's no place lilke home." I cringe when I hear such phrases. They're much overused and their true meaning has been lost to time. Yet, such cliches give me pause for thought. Just what makes home, home?

Home, for me, at least in the physical sense of space, has often been transient. Sometimes I have lived alone for months on end, and at other times I've shared my home space with forty-two privates and a mashochistic drill sergeant. Each home has had its own unique characteristics, sharing qualities with each one that has come before and after it, but influenced most by the personal relationships I developed while there. The environment too, makes an impact on my memory of home. I prefer well-lit spaces, with lots of natural light. But, dark places, too, have burrowed into my memories, safe places like time spent in my basement nursing a hangover with the help of friends and fast food from McDonalds. There have been bedrooms that offered refuge from stressful and exhauting events, and those that hold memories of intimate moments I have shared with significant others. And when I think of home, I think of those four-legged creatures that have added that something extra to my life. Sergeant is one of those memories.

Sergeant can at first appear an intimidating creature, capable of inflicting great harm, but to those who know him, particularly to me, he is loveable, a companion of high esteem. That is not to say he does not have his moods, and recently such moodiness caused my wife and me concern with respect to our one-year-old daughter. Sergeant snapped at her, at her face more particularly, though not injuring her. He bruised her emotionally, causing her to cry and compelling my wife and I to relocate Sergeant to Detroit, [to the waiting arms of family?]. Sergeant's absence is reflected in the improved condition of the plants in the backyard, and in the change to my morning routine. Instead of a hairy paw upon my face, I wake to the buzz of an alarm. My office is that much emptier, and the office sofa that much colder since his departure. And though my home is filled with the laughter of my daughter and the presence of my loving wife, there is a little void. In this home, the townhouse space, there are memories good and bad, and Sergeant among the favorites.

Home, then, is where our life stories are made. It is, indeed, a place where the heart thrives, where relationships are begun and ended. But it is not so much a physical place, rather a thread of time, woven together by the people that have influenced me, and by the memories they have bestowed. I've come to understand that Dorothy was right. However wonderful Oz, there's no place like home. There's no place like home. There's no place like home. [End revision]

You are right about my thoughts scattered about. It almost shames me on how well you have re-written my essay. "But, dark places, too, have burrowed into my memories," one of my favorite parts. Thanks for the response. I'll get there eventually. Thanks.

Journal entries are fantastic food for essay and story ideas. Always keep something handy, a journal, notebook, etc. Take me for instance, I woke at 3 a.m. this morning with a blog entry chewing on my mind. I had to write it, so I did. I have a small brown leather journal that I sometimes carry with me for those times when I need to jot things down, and just as your journal entry here morphed into something more, others could do the same.

You've got a good ear for essay topics, now you just have continue building your writing skills. Don't let that rewrite intimidate. It's just provided as an example. You may have taken that editing in a different direction. Write, write, write is the best way to take your good ideas and hone them into good finished pieces.