How to Find Your True Home

Or... What I learned from my house burning down.

Yes. You really could lose everything.

Like many of us, I have good friends in Los Angeles. I've spent the last 10 days anxiously typing their zip codes into the fire checker and trying not to give them more work by texting them non-stop. As of right now, they are all safe, and their homes remain intact; their neighbors and good friends have not been so lucky.

I think a lot about the concept of 'home' and what that word truly means. Of the people who have lost their homes in LA, some lived within those four familiar walls their entire lives, some are recent transplants, perhaps chasing the LA dream, and for some, it's their second (or even third) home. Are they all equally devastated? Is it easier for some than others?

I want to say that I can't imagine what it must be like to lose your home to a fire. But unfortunately, I can.

Ah.... high school graduation. Do you remember yours?

The ghastly, itchy polyester gown you had to wear over the dress you'd spent hours carefully selecting for optimal hotness. The alumni would be there after all, and you hadn't seen Bobby Joe (I slipped into the 50s there for a minute) since he left for college last year, and you are convinced that this is the day he will notice you. If only you didn't have to cover that kick-ass dress with your gown!

But seriously, it's an incredible day, right? My Scottish husband doesn't understand high-school graduations. He says, "Why should you get so celebrated for something you had to do anyway? It's not like you've accomplished anything that special."

I argue that it's a rite of passage. American high school graduation should represent a transformation - from a geeky, self-centered teenager living off their parent's dime to a supremely confident (still self-centered), already accepted to their first choice college, about to go off and conquer the world… adult.

Except it doesn't work that way, does it?

Well, it didn't work that way for me. I did not have the confidence part. I was the embodiment of 'Imposter Syndrome.' (Come on, I know you know that feeling of, 'everyone is going to find me out any minute now.') However, I had the 'accepted to their first choice college' and 'self-centered' part down pat. And I yearned to 'go off and conquer the world.' But fate intervened. I had a different rite of passage the day after graduating high school. My house burned down.

On the day my mother walked into her bedroom, picked up the ashtray next to my napping father, and threw the (unknown to her) still smoldering remains into the paper basket (filled with paper) under the bathroom sink, I was at another graduation party. I was the entertainment this time, singing with a band to make $50. My best friend Lenny was back from Boston University and had promised he would try to join me, but he hadn't shown up. I asked the ‘party mom’ if I could borrow their phone and called Lenny at home.

"I think you might want to sit down."¹

I sat. I remember the spindly chair next to the kitchen counter and how the cushion slipped out from under me so my bony teenage butt pressed into the wood.

"What's wrong?"

"I was just in the pizza place," Lenny said. "There were firefighters in the line, and their walkie-talkies went off. It was your address. There's a fire at your house. A big one."

I hung up on Lenny and immediately called home. No answer. Debbie, my mum's friend, would know what was going on because Debbie knew everything. I phoned Debbie.

"Hang on, Sweetie. Here's your mom."

"Mum? What's happening?"

"Lisa, stay where you are. You can't go home just now, and I'm about to leave for the hospital. Debbie is taking me, so come here when you're done."

"The hospital. Why?"

"Dad was burned. He's in the hospital. I need to go."

Who knew polyester would be the least of my worries?

I don't know why I stayed and sang. The ‘party mom’ offered to drive me home, but I refused. Maybe I was in denial. Maybe I reverted to 'self-centered' mode. Maybe I just had a foreshadowing that I would need that $50. Either way, I didn't leave until we'd finished our set, which must have been pretty early because it was still light out (I think).

Here's the thing about that particular home. It wasn't just mine. It belonged to my family but was home to others, too. Across the street from that house was a pathway that led directly to the football field. Next to the football field was the high school, and next to the high school was the junior high. I am the second oldest of four siblings. Those schools were filled with our friends. My mum was 'Mum' to many. She went to work during the day but kept the front door open and the fridge full.

"Just in case someone forgets their lunch." She always said.

Our family room in the back was always filled with kids. My parents had epic 'Vicars and Tarts' or Halloween parties to which our friends were always invited, as long as car keys were relinquished 'just in case." (Hey... it was the 80's. Most parents believed what they didn't know didn't hurt them.) It wasn't uncommon to wake on those Sunday mornings to the floors of our home covered in snoring teenagers.

On the day of the fire, my older brother wasn't home, but one of his best friends, Danny, was there just hanging out. This wasn't unusual. Danny was the first to climb the stairs to try and rescue my dad. He failed, retreated downstairs, wrapped a wet tea towel around his face, and tried again. No dice. My dad had to wait for the fireman with oxygen tanks to arrive, by which time his heart had stopped.

Dad was revived six times in the helicopter to the burn hospital. But after a long few months in the hospital, where we were frequently told his chances were 50/50, he survived. We've since discovered he has nine lives.

I spent that summer bouncing between beds my mum had arranged for me, my friend's homes, and even, a few desperate nights, sleeping in my boyfriend's car in the parking lot of a Princeton grocery store. What had looked like a golden future was now a dark, narrow hallway with no end in sight. There would be no money for college. There was no home to live in. My dad may not survive.

I don't remember who drove me home from that party. I do remember requesting to drive by my house. It was a disaster. The entire second floor was burned to the frame. I saw blackened posters on my bedroom wall through the crumbling gap that used to be a window. The ground floor was slashed with scorch marks, and although it still stood, I later learned that nothing in a fire escapes the water. Ironic, huh? They pour on the water to save the house, and it destroys everything inside.

But I couldn't keep my eyes on the house for long because the street was a parade of headlights and huddled figures, shoulder-to-shoulder in solidarity (Okay, so maybe it was dark. Is it memory or menopause making that go all wonky?) My friends were with those cars, sitting on the hoods and roofs, feet dangling from passenger seats, even on the street itself—so many of them. Lenny had put out the word, and Lawrence High had rallied. They'd been there for hours, waiting for me to come home. Why?

"We didn't want you to arrive home for the first time to a locked door," Katie said. "It was never locked for us."

That day, I learned that home truly is where your heart is.

And my heart is with people.

Those high-school friends. My husband's Uni friends who welcomed us with open arms when we ended up back in Dundee. Our Italian friends who wait for us every summer and celebrate with dinners and aperitivo when we arrive. Our friends in The Bahamas with whom we eagerly anticipate days at the pool and dinners on the full moon patio listening to the ocean. Our friends in the US who take us in when we have nowhere to stay, but also experienced the UK, Europe, or the Carribbean for the first time in our company. My family. Who are always there to give me a bed that feels like home, whether it's a room in a house on a lake or a couch in a young adult, cat-hair-covered apartment.

I know that none of this I’ve shared today would make anyone in Los Angeles feel even a fraction better, but it's all I have to offer. I may not have conquered the world or my imposter syndrome, but I've stitched together the threads of heartbeats into a cozy patchwork blanket I call home.

JOURNAL PROMPT

I want to write more about home and place and what setting and worldbuilding mean to your Heroine's Adventure. So, instead of presenting you with a journal prompt this week, can I ask you to comment below? Please tell me what home means to you and why. How important is 'home' to your sense of who you are and what you can achieve?

1. The following conversations are not word for word. I can’t remember what day it was or what I was wearing; I certainly can’t remember the exact words said. But it’s the gist of it.