Going Home

It is an interesting phenomenon when the definition and location of “home” changes. As a kid, “home” was where I lived with my parents. During college, the lines got blurred. Was home college or “home-home”, as in my parents’ house? I left the mid-west fifteen years ago, and consider Colorado home now. But a part of me certainly considers Indiana home-home, although it is a home that I do not often visit.

My grandmother passed away and her memorial was held in southern Indiana. Southern Indiana was not  a part of my life anymore and the thought of returning there brought up a lot of memories.

My mom comes from a very large Catholic family, rooted in southern Indiana. As a child, I spent time there almost every year. There were always too many of my mom’s cousins for me to remember or even be able to identify what cousin belonged with what family. Honestly, going to southern Indiana was not one of my favorite activities, especially once I became a teen.

My grandmother, Betty, was born and raised in southern Indiana on a farm. She was one of many strong women in our family. As was common with many families in the 60s and 70s, once she married and had children, she left the farm, moved to the state capital, and no longer lived the rural lifestyle on a daily basis.

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Growing up, I would go to southern Indiana to visit Betty’s mother (my great-grandmother).  During those visits, the garden was pumping out vegetables, I was expected to snap green beans, and I would go into the treacherous root cellar to retrieve food from glass jars that great-grandma Healy had canned. You must remember that I was a kid of the 90s raised on Capri Suns and lunchables. Gardens, snapping beans, and root cellars were not the norm for me.

Back then, going down the wooden stairs into a cavity of the house that had dirt walls (aka the root cellar) was a truly terrifying experience. I did not know what it meant to can and was always worried that grandma Healy was going to poison us with some old green bean in a glass jar. That obviously never happened.

Once the memorial location for Betty's funeral was announced, the thought of driving across a substantial portion of the country to return to southern Indiana brought on mixed emotions. I was sad that Betty had passed away and not looking forward to the long drive through Kansas. I also did not know what to expect in southern Indiana. I had not been to the town where my mom’s family was from for probably close to twenty years.

My sister and I drove from southwest Colorado to southern Indiana over a span of two days.

The weekend in Washington, Indiana was really rewarding. It felt like I met my mom’s cousins for the first time. Although I had known the family for years, I was able to actually talk to them and felt like I had some things in common. We discussed hunting, the west, and the family. I made a connection with family members that I had known for my entire life but felt like I had just met.

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Colorado was experiencing a serious drought that fall and I was not able to get the 80 pounds of tomatoes that I needed to can. One of my mom’s cousins came through in a huge way. He hooked me up with his Amish neighbor and I bought 120 pounds of fresh, Indiana tomatoes. I was in heaven.

My sister and I visited the vegetable stands throughout the community and filled our SUV to the brim with vegetables to can once we got back to Colorado. I wanted to buy some seriously huge pumpkins, but the CRV was too full.

Yet another cousin invited us over to the farm. We visited and they showed us around. I was stoked to see an unbelievable amount of eggs, raised on the farm. Bill and Pat let my sister and I take eggs back to Colorado. I started to think that my food-hoarding tendencies may actually be  an important genetic trait that led to my family’s survival over the years. Or, I am just a food hoarder.

During that weekend, many of the cousins met at a local pub to toast Betty and catch up. My sister and I walked back to the rental house in the dark (it was only two blocks), and realized one of my mom’s cousin was worried about us and followed us to make sure we were okay. I am not sure that I have ever had a relative follow me to make sure I was okay? It was an amazingly welcoming feeling to know there were people looking out for us.

Going back to southern Indiana stirred a lot of deeply-rooted emotions. By the end of the weekend, I was grateful for my family, for that place, and proud of where I came from. For me, going back to Washington, Indiana for Betty’s funeral felt like going “home-home-home.”