I asked the Edwards campaign to send me John's new book, Home, so I could read it and write a review on it. It was written in more of a testimonial fashion rather than simply a narrative by Edwards. People from all over the country submitted essays about their memories of their childhood homes. Some are from famous people such as Star Jones, and some from the not-so-famous, like my friend Greg Vasquez.
Edwards describes his own childhood home in the forward. There's precious little information about the architectural details in his and many other of the testimonials. Most provide a photo, so there is some context in which to build a scene of living there in your mind's eye. But most of the stories are not about houses, they're about the people who lived there.
Another of the profiles is on Danny Glover, who grew up in the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood of San Francisco. He and his family of seven shared the upstairs of the house they owned and rented out the bottom floor. He found a daydreaming spot in the house, between the dining room and the bedrooms, where he could just lay down and think and dream.
As I read, I found myself thinking about why John Edwards would write this book. I thought about him living in his brand new house...but I also read between the lines. It's not about the walls that surround your existence, it's about the people and the love that are found within those walls. It's the character and lessons taught to children, the wise words passed from grandparent to grandchild. It's the small kindnesses, the kissed boo-boos, the tears of grief wiped away in the dark.
"Above all, I want to thank my wife Elizabeth and our four children, Wade, Cate, Emma Claire and Jack. Where ever I am, you are home." Those are the last lines in the book. The inside back cover included a plastic sleeve to insert a photograph of your own childhood home.
Here is a photo of my childhood home. My best memories are of my dad coming home from work and us kids running to hug him and of seeing my grandmother's face in her window next door, smiling at me. I also remember mom kicking us out of the kitchen so she could mop the floors, and dinner cooking on the stove. I remember the fresh sheets on the bed and my mom singing her favorite country songs along with the radio while she ironed.
Home is not about the house. It's about the people and the values and the lessons we learn while we live there.
Nice post, Claire. You're absolutely right about the strength of memories from our childhood homes. After all, that's where our lives begin to take shape. Your post reminded me of this one about childhood neighborhoods: http://whenwordsmatter.typepad.com/passing_it_on/2007/04/what_was_your_n.html.
Posted by: Larry Lehmer | June 26, 2007 at 12:50 PM