Coming Home

By Icy Frantz

I sat at the Stamford train station on the Wednesday afternoon before Thanksgiving. I was picking up our eldest and his train was delayed, so I had time to sit and wait and watch, and as you can imagine on the most traveled day of the year, it was very busy. As a mom, I spend a lot of time behind the wheel of my car, Ubering non-drivers to and from school and activities, picking up and dropping off, with little thought about the coming and going. But sitting at the station watching more coming than going, I was struck by the joyful emotion of countless strangers as they wheeled their bags, found and embraced their loved ones. I didn’t know their stories, who they were or where they came from, but I was pretty certain that they were coming home.

Growing up, I learned to distinguish home from house. My parents divorced when I was seven and, consequently, I was shuttled between my mom’s house and my dad’s. And, although I spent more of my time with Mom, she was in the habit of buying fixer-uppers, fixing and then flipping them. I would leave for school from one house and return home to another, never allowing myself to get too attached to the physical structure, the walls and the roof, the front door, a bedroom or secret hiding place in the backyard. I dreamt about the idyllic home, one roof, one family and a picket fence, but I learned that for me, home is more of a feeling of familiarity, security, and love, and, oh, a stocked fridge.

Over the years, I left for summer camp, boarding school, college and eventually to my own apartment. With each departure, I felt a true sense of excitement and anticipation. I was heading out to discover and explore my own piece of the world, something that belonged to me and not to them. This, I thought, is where my story begins, not understanding at the time, that no matter where I go, home would be an integral part of my story. I always returned, soaking up the well-known smells and heading straight to the fridge where finding Fresca, leftovers, and homemade yogurt seemed to indicate to me that all was well and that no matter how I had grown, I still fit.

Now, as an adult, (which still makes me laugh a little) creating home has become my responsibility. Maybe because of my upbringing or in reaction to it, I am totally committed to settling in one place. I know how blessed I am in this sense. I want the kids (now a little grown themselves) to want to be here. I want them to feel loved and accepted. I want their friends to feel loved and accepted. I want them to know that our house is a place where they can retreat from the lives they have created beyond us, and lean into a comfy couch, eat take out sushi (I’d like to say a home-cooked meal), laugh at the wet noses of the animals, watch football, and find a fridge full of childhood memories. It’s hard not to think of all of this as Thanksgiving winds down and we head fast and furious into Christmas. What I didn’t understand in my younger years was just how happy it made the adults in the house to have everyone coming home. Because today nothing makes me feel more complete than a full home.

Moving beyond the confines of family and close friends, Greenwich, too, has always been my home. Sometimes I am asked, “Haven’t you lived anywhere else.?” And I have, as far away as Russia and as close as Stamford, but there is something about this community that makes me feel like I am home. Maybe it’s the connections that create a very long quick errand at the grocery store, or the cadence of the town that has become both expectation and routine, or the memories of growing up and raising children here. But, if I had to pick one reason, I would pick the people that make up our very special community.

In our community, we live among heroes; we get to know them, sometimes personally and sometimes through their remarkable stories that are passed along at a gym, in the pews of our churches, or in line at Starbucks. We root and care for them because they are part of our home, which is definitely less about the soil and more about the soul.

This was the case with Karen Newman. Karen was a celebrated triathlete and her accomplishments in her sport alone would have made her exceptional, but she was so much more. She openly and honestly shared her battles as well as her love for family and friends, and her deep faith that guided her every day of her life. She was a woman that truly walked the walk, or rather ran the walk. She had an endless supply of energy, and she gave of it generously even throughout her hard-fought battle against cancer. A few years back, Karen moved away to create a new home in Vermont, but this home, this community, the one in which she raised her children, kept her close in our heart.

It’s not about the geography or the real estate; the worn brown leather chairs or threadbare rug. It’s about the people who have occupied those chairs and traveled upon the rugs. It’s that place where unlike the song, everyone not only knows your name, but knows your story, the whole story and they invite you anyway. It’s family, both by conception and by making. And it’s a fullness that comes not from the Thanksgiving dinner, but from being connected and knowing that this is enough and so much more than the where.

Coming home is physical; trains planes and automobiles, and it’s emotional; steep with joy and tears and playful ribbing, but most of all its spiritual.

Over the years, I stayed in touch with Karen mostly through social media. I read the book that she authored, our boys played town football together and I read her entries on her caring bridge page. I was deeply affected by her story. She made me want to be better. In one of her last entries she wrote, “We have one life, one story to tell and we must learn to live it well and give back to the world in ways we never dreamed. We have been praying for a miracle, but maybe that miracle is coming home.”
Karen died on November 13.

The last of the Thanksgiving leftovers have been eaten, and the fridge, like the house is back to its everyday order. Holiday cards are arriving in the mail box, each one a gift. And isn’t it those faces, young and old, looking out from the cards, that enrich and connect our stories, and make our homes and our communities the wonderful havens that they are.

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