HOME
Bing Crosby’s “I’ll be home for Christmas” was playing on the radio the other day. It plays everyday during the holidays. Sometimes when I hear that song, my emotions can get a little charged up. My dad used to roam around my childhood home singing it. In his baritone voice, belting out, “I’ll be home for Christmas…if only in my dreams,” as he walked through the kitchen. His voice would echo throughout our walls and I had no idea that years later his voice would echo throughout my heart.
It got me thinking about a lot. But especially this word “home.” What does it mean? And most importantly what does it mean to me now? When my dad, my mom, and my brother died, I didn’t feel like I had a “home” to go to during the holidays. Or at anytime really. Hearing my dad’s voice always felt so much like “home.” And I couldn’t exactly snap my fingers or push play to hear his voice again. So, I reached over to my phone to call him. Yep. I actually for a split second thought it was a possibility. I had completely forgotten in that moment that he had been dead for a good 10 years.
There was a mental blank spot in my brain in which I thought I could pick up the phone, just like the old days, and give him a call. That was the first time this had happened in a while. Usually when something triggered my memory, I would just think to myself, “I wish I could call my dad.” Not this time. Even ten years later, for a split second, I thought that I had an opportunity. I would call and he would answer on his flip phone, “Hey honey! Did you see the Arkansas game?”
One more call. Just one more time. I just wanted to feel like I was home.
I used to talk to my dad EVERYDAY. People get to spend a lot of time in the car in LA. Cause, you know, traffic. So, I would always call him. He was my go to guy. Most of the time I didn’t have a reason. Mainly just to hear his voice. Just the sound of it felt like home. Maybe that is why when I went to Nashville recently and was greeted by a lady with a strong southern accent, I felt something. The sound of it felt familiar. It felt a little like “home.” Not the kind of home that I wanted to move to. But the kind of home that felt like a feeling.
Maybe home is more than just a place. Maybe home is a feeling too.
My dad loved to sing. He wasn’t a pro at it. But he could carry a tune. And when he sang, he was all heart. I remember he shared a birthday with one of my LA friends/roommates. I always thought it was the coolest thing. I had never known anyone to share a birthday with him and I still don’t. She is a singer and one time he called me and said, “I saw your friend on TV. The one that shares a birthday with me. She was bouncing around that stage like she had a stick up her ass.” I laughed. He then replied in his thick, Arkansas accent, “She was pretty damn good.” My dad had a way with words. And he could recognize singing talent when he heard it.
When my dad would sing, his baritone voice would echo through our small, but mighty, Arkansas house. Especially during the holidays. Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby. All the holiday classics. As the ice clanking on his glass would almost keep the beat with him. He would belt out, “I’lllllllll be home for Christmas….If Only in my Dreeeeeams.” It’s funny. You never think the memories that are being made at the time are the ones that you will remember forever. Those seemingly ordinary moments truly are the extraordinary ones.
So, with my dad’s voice in the faint distance as Bing Crosby sang, “I’ll be Home for Christmas” on the radio station, I reached for the phone. Wait. I thought. It hit me. Reality. I can’t call him. A wave of emotions blanketed my body. I didn’t cry. I just felt disconnected. Yet, yearning for connection with a soul that had not walked this earth in ten years.
I wanted to feel the warmth and comfort of home. And in that moment home was a conversation with my dad.
I thought for a second, what would I have said if I had the chance to call him? What would we have talked about? And why can’t I just talk to him right now? So, just as though I was on the phone, I had a conversation. In my car, I just started talking to my dad. Like the old days.
I pulled up next to a guy at a stoplight. He looked over at me, I would imagine with the assumption I was talking on my bluetooth. I kinda was. There just wasn’t anyone really on the other end. And I was saving minutes on my cell phone plan.
We talked about sports and my job. Oh and I told him I was fighting a cold. He was a pharmacist and always had some good guidance. He told me that my cough was unproductive and that I need a decongestant. And then he said to drink lots of fluids and get some rest.
I told him about the places I still wanted to travel. And that I had just put a deposit in for Everest Base Camp in 2020. His first reaction was, “Well, what the hell would do that for?” Haha. Then he told me to be careful. He loved my adventurous spirit, but I think it also stressed him out.
I told him about my job and all of the funny things kids do and say. Like the kid that can’t quite say my name and on the last day of school before winter break he came up to me and said, “Merry Christmas Mentally.” My dad laughed. And I giggled. My dad reminded me that he was proud of me and that those kids are lucky to have me.
I told him about all of my friends. One just found out she was pregnant. I told him how cute my Godson was. He seemed comforted to know that I was surrounded by so many wonderful people. He mentioned, “You are surrounded by so many wonderful people, because you too are wonderful Mel.”
As the conversation came to an end, he said, “Sweetheart, I love you.” I replied, “Love you too dad.” As the song continued to play and I heard the words this time, “I’ll be home for Christmas…” I suddenly realized that home isn’t necessarily a place. Or at least it isn’t the place that I have always attached the meaning to, my childhood home. The way things were.
Perhaps home is ever evolving. A physical space. A feeling. Good friends.
Maybe home is a feeling in my heart where there is space for it all. My family, my friends, and for me. A feeling of love, joy, peace and kindness. A feeling that feels safe and familiar. Maybe home is also feeling that you can take with you wherever you go. Like a mobile home. Hitch that thing to your heart and you can take it anywhere. Haha.
As my dad’s voice continued to echo throughout my heart, “I’ll be home for Christmas…” I began to feel love and warmth at the sound of his memory. I smiled and I knew that I was home…if only in my dreams.
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