Home Isn't Here

Moving became a way of life for my mother and, by default, my brother and me.

I lived in seventeen places and attended 15 different schools by the time I graduated high school.

Moving became a way of life for my mother and, by default, my brother and me. Each miniature migration was set in motion by Mom's latest big idea or a bridge she'd burned to the ground. My brother Ronnie and I were involuntary passengers along for the ride.

If there were two things my Mom was good at besides drinking, they were sniffing out "opportunities" and slinking away from impending disaster. 

It didn't matter whether she was barreling toward a thing or running away from it; the pattern was the same: sell the few possessions we owned and start over someplace else.

In the summer of 1979, I went to live with my Mom again after being with my grandmother since I was three. I knew I was supposed to live with my mother. All the kids I knew lived with their parents (sometimes just their moms.) That was "normal." 

But being reunited with my Mom felt anything but normal. There was a hardness in her that I was unable to figure out how to soften, no matter how hard I tried. I found myself holding my breath a lot when we were together.

It seemed strange to me that my mother was gone a lot. I knew she didn’t have a job, so I wasn’t sure where she went every day. Somehow I knew not to ask. 

I found ways to occupy myself when I was alone. I colored in my room and created contests to see how many pebbles of salt I could stand to eat from the vial Mom let me bring back as a souvenir from the Great Salt Lake.  

When Mom was around, she didn't say much. She didn't play with me or ask me about school. She didn't do any of the things I expected her to do because she was my Mom...the things I'd seen other mothers do.

I remember thinking that if I could make her laugh or say something clever, she might heat frozen waffles in the toaster for us and sit at the table with me instead of turning away and staring out the window while she puffed on a cigarette.

I had just started second grade at Beech Street Elementary, and after school one day, Mom poked her head into the living room where I was watching cartoons and announced, "We're moving to Utah."

My grandfather (her father) lived in Salt Lake City. We visited him a few weeks before when he bought airline tickets for us.

I don't know if the move was decided on before, during, or after that trip, but this was the first I'd heard of it, and it was like the rug was being pulled out from under me.

I couldn't have been back with my Mom for much longer than a month, and I was just settling in. I was starting to like my new school and was happy to have reconnected with my paternal grandmother and cousins on my father's side. 

Although I hadn't seen my Dad since I was two or three, I figured it would only be a matter of time before he came to visit since we lived in the same city now. If we moved, that might never happen.

But the more Mom talked about it, the more I thought that moving was just what we needed. She was excited when she chatted about her job at my grandfather's autobody shop and how much more there was to do in Salt Lake City.

It seemed like living somewhere else would make her happy. And if she was happy, maybe she'd spend more time with me. Then, living with my Mom wouldn't make me feel so alone.

A few days later, my Grandpa Ken pulled up to our apartment building in his Ford Ranchero to take Mom, Ronnie, and me back to Utah with him.

I helped the grownups load our bags and boxes into the back of the truck. I tucked my Happy Days lunch box and the new magic slate Mom picked up for the trip behind the bench seat and climbed in. The back of my legs pasted themselves to the red plastic almost instantly.

"Grandpa, how long does it take to get to Utah from here," I asked.

His eyes moved toward the sky as if he was looking for something. "Oh, Manchester to Salt Lake? We're looking at three to four days, I guess, depending on how much we have to stop."

Mom glared at me and chimed in, "And we won't be stopping every 20 minutes, so don’t ask."

Three or four days seemed like a long time to be stuck to that seat between Mom, Ronnie, and Grandpa, but I knew I could manage if that's what it would take to feel like I belonged with them.