Leigh Kramer

Home is a Place

People make a place home. That’s what I always believed, at least until last June when I moved back to my hometown. Moving during a pandemic was not ideal but it was clarifying. I’d been debating over a shortlist of towns and cities for months but when the time came to make the decision, I immediately knew. It was time to move home.

But what was home after a decade away? And what is home when you’re not able to safely see many of the people you love?

This is what I’ve lived into this past year. People can be one of the best parts of a home but the place, the setting is not irrelevant.

Last November I headed to a forest preserve for a socially distanced walk with a friend. As we started down the path, I tried to remember the last time I’d been there. I’m relatively certain I never went on any of my visits home during my decade out of state but did I go one last time in the months leading up to my move to Nashville? I no longer recall.

Nor can I remember the first time I went there. It’s a place that feels like it’s always been a part of my life. I remember going out on the lake in a boat with my best friends in high school, the origin of one of our funniest inside jokes. I took the longer trail during my training to hike the Grand Canyon in my mid-20s. There were countless picnics and walks with friends.

It’s a place you take for granted because of how often you go, until you realize you no longer remember the last time you set foot there.

We rounded the path on that beautiful day and I took in the familiar trail and the lake and the trees with the leaves abloom with fall color.

I felt as rooted as those trees.

It struck me how this forest preserve was also home. It watched me grow up, season after season. The trees grew and bloomed and shed year after year, silent witnesses to all who took its paths.

It reminded me of who I was and who I am and who I will be.

Before moving back, I went through a four year period of instabilities and unknowns. Last spring my friend Micha observed that I was untethered. Untethered. That word snapped it all into focus. I had nothing anchoring me. I had a place to live in Knoxville but it wasn’t where I planned on staying. And yet I didn’t know where I wanted to go next.

Then I returned home, anchored once more. I already knew where the grocery stores were, as well as the closest bank. When I needed an oil change, there was no guessing game about where to go. When my car had an issue, I called up my old mechanic and felt profound relief to have someone who I knew would be honest and fair.

Not everything was the same. Businesses opened and closed aplenty in my 10 years away and more closed because of the pandemic. But the familiar roads and streets endured. The only time I looked up a route was to ensure I had remembered the correct shortcut.

I’m not the same either and my relationships have changed as well. There has been death, divorce, and estrangement. There have been weddings and babies. Friends have moved away. But we're all still connected one way or another.

Memories accompanied me as I drove around town. The blocks my best friends and I would walk around late at night. The park where I went on an ill-fated date and the old video store where I ran into the boy who would give me my first kiss. My grandparents’ old house. The pool where I took swimming lessons and the restaurant with the best Old Fashioned. The many hospice patients I saw. My high school, so much bigger due to additional construction over the years. The library which hosted our Battle of the Books tournaments and gave me my first library card. The houses where my friends live now.

During a year where I did not see many of loved ones, it was place that let me know I was home once more.

Even in the hard stretch of months where it was too cold to stand in someone’s backyard, I had constant reminders of these roots. I was not alone. I was still anchored—and this place made it clear.

It’s not perfect. But it’s home. And it’s the place.

 

P.S. Feedburner no longer delivers blog posts by email so I've switched over to Mailchimp for delivery, since they also have my very infrequently sent author newsletter. You can subscribe here. I'm hoping to get back into the rhythm of writing essays again. It's been too long.

A Cousin Walks in to a Coffee Shop

It doesn't seem remarkable on the surface but my cousin and I went out for coffee while I was in town a couple of weekends ago. No big deal, right? People meet for coffee all the time.

Except we'd never done that before.

A few days before I returned to my hometown for our annual family reunion, I received a voicemail from Adam stating he had good news and bad news. When I called him back, he said he wouldn't be at the reunion because he'd planned a bike trip with 20 friends and it was that same Sunday. After I made fun of him for not remembering that the reunion falls on the same weekend every year, I told him I'd miss him and I'd see him at Christmas.

He didn't like the thought of going that long without seeing each other. But what other option did we have?

 

Over at A Deeper Family today, sharing about one of my favorite cousins. Head on over to read the rest.

Legend of the Gate 5 Gang

Brooke and I started it all with our decision to get the Ozzie Plan. We'd always meet up at Gate 5. Since she lived and worked in the city, she was always waiting for me to stroll in from the Green Line. We'd dig out tickets from purses and get in the much shorter Gate 5 lines. This particular gate seemed like the best kept secret of Comiskey, even though it was adjacent to parking lots and closest to the Red and Green Lines.

It was the clear meeting place for any game thereafter, whether I went with Brooke or a handful of other Sox fan friends.

I don't remember who officially declared us to be the Gate Five Gang but it stuck. Brooke, Mark, Jill, Todd, and me. We were super fans. Nay, we were the Best White Sox Fans Ever.

We even made t-shirts to prove it.

We've gone to many a game in varying combinations but the whole gang has probably only attended one or two games together.  Which makes it all the more funny to call ourselves a gang.

Whatevs. We make up our own rules on the Southside.

(They no longer blog but it's worth reading Mark and Todd's different takes on a game we all went to in 2006, featuring the return of Frank Thomas, a rogue squirrel, and an unexpected win.)

Brooke, Jill, and Todd have all since married and started their families. It's a little more complicated for us to all be free to attend a game. Especially since I moved out of state. But I dream of a day when we'll all reunite at The Cell and cheer on our team.

With the presence of our collective fandom, the White Sox can't help but win.

The Gate 5 Gang has been on my mind with the start of another season.

Spring Training imbues baseball fans with hope. We are all optimists at the start. We look at the team and the trades, the strengths and the weaknesses. We look at player performance and figure out gaps but it's all hypothesis at this point. No matter what, we think, "this could be the year."

So it is with the White Sox. Paul Konerko is the only vestige from the 2005 World Champion team. I need to spend time familiarizing myself with the new names on the roster. I may not be able to watch many games from here in Nashville but there's nothing like baseball season.

Baseball brings people together. We are united in our victories and losses. We prepare for the worst but hope for the best. We keep coming back year after year after year.

Because this could be The Year, after all.

This is what I love about baseball and life. The sense of possibility. This could be my team's year. It could also be my year.

I need to do my part. I often know what I need to do. It's my turn to step up to the plate. The rest might be out of my control but I'll never know if I hang back and procrastinate or distract myself with other stuff.

The Gate 5 Gang teases me about my relentless optimism when it comes to the White Sox. I have an unfailing belief in my team. And yet I so often struggle to apply this sunny disposition to my own prospects.

No longer.

This is my year. This is my chance. I'm taking the first step. I'm taking another leap of faith.

No matter the outcome, it will all work for good.

Why wouldn't it?

Are you excited about baseball season? Are you as optimistic about your prospects as you are for others?

The California Cousins

Grandma and her beauteous granddaughters

 

I wanted to be like them when I grew up. I viewed Clara and Emily through awe-colored glasses, ever amazed by their wit, beauty, intelligence. They were only a few years older than me and they were my cousins. Mine.

 

Their parents divorced the year I was born. The girls consequently grew up on the East Coast, interspersed with time with their dad in Wisconsin. I saw Clara and Emily at Christmas and the other occasional holiday, some regular summer visits, too. We treasured being all together, this mass descending on my grandparents' house ready to eat and play and talk for hours.

 

I don't know how much I talked at family gatherings in my younger years. I wanted to soak everyone up and I also wasn't sure what I had to contribute. I was plain old me and everyone else was fascinating. There was no competition, no one making me feel “less than,” but I couldn't compete, especially with my dazzling cousins. Nor did I want to. I paid close attention to Clara and Emily's jokes and music recommendations and anything else they wanted to share. Maybe in hopes their awesomeness would rub off on me but also because time together was precious. I might not see them again for another six months or a year.

 

When my uncle remarried, the girls and a couple of their friends choreographed a dance at the reception. They stood on the steps outside the house and I don't remember the song that played but I can still picture them swaying and smiling on that humid day.

 

We're the only girl cousins and so for the many holidays and birthday parties Clara and Emily couldn't attend, it was me and the boys. Somewhere along the way, we grew up. Their visits became less frequent once they reached high school. I don't remember the last time they celebrated Christmas with us. Even so, I looked up to them. I still do.

 

They've been back to visit a handful of times this past decade. A family reunion, a quick weekend to say goodbye to our grandmother and then a week later for her funeral. They live in San Francisco and it's not cheap to fly back to the Midwest. They've missed out on the garden variety gatherings. Adam's wedding and my brother's, too. They couldn't come back for our cousin's funeral or Aunt Sue's, nor the funerals for so many great-aunts and great-uncles.

 

While home for Thanksgiving, Uncle Bud told me Clara, her boyfriend, and their baby boy were coming to visit the week after Christmas. We hadn't seen each other since Grandma's funeral 5 years ago. There was no way I'd miss out on the chance to see them; their visit would be my last hurrah before returning home to Nashville. Even better: Emily joined in on the fun, freshly back from Europe.

The first Saturday in January, the whole family (minus my brother and sister-in-law) convened at Grandpa's house. We ate and talked and laughed for hours. I snuggled Clara's almost 1 year old son any chance I could get. I talked with Clara's boyfriend about books and writing and, oddly enough, Scientology. (Look, I am strangely fascinated by Scientologists and I wanted a Californian perspective.) I looked around the room, overwhelmed by the love it contained.

And I caught up with my California cousins.

I'll always be a bit in awe of them. How could I not be? They are amazing women. But now I see our similarities. I see how I have just as much to offer and the way they look forward to seeing me as much as I look forward to seeing them.

We've all ended up forging our own path. What are the odds?

Clara co-owns her business The Wedding Party. She started out as an employee and then she and her partner bought it out. And they've made it work! I secretly dream of some day flying out to the store to pick out my dress or the bridesmaid dresses. She's an amazing mother. I loved seeing the way she and Wallie take care of their son.

Then there's Emily. She started working with a rock band. Did she know anything about the music industry beforehand? No, but she's figured out each step along the way. The band has wound up on some amazing tours and they've made friends in high places. I could listen to her stories all day.

Clara, I still want your cardigan. Don't forget.

As we sat across from each other, trading stories about work and our dreams, I marveled at who we are. There's no telling what all we'll accomplish.

Clara and Emily are two of my biggest fans. I never could have imagined this when I was little. I had no idea what I was capable of offering the world.

The day flew by far too fast. There's never enough time to talk, to be. One of these days I'll make it out to San Francisco for a visit. We'll look forward to the next gathering, whenever it may be.

This Is How We Met: A Fried Pickle Love Story

We should have known better. Nine 19 year olds planning a camping trip? Not the best idea. Only a few of us had camping experience, after all, and we'd never planned an entire trip before.

My aunt and uncle recommended a camp site in central Illinois, not too far from where three of my friends grew up. We thought it would be the best of both worlds. We did not consider what the camp site offered compared to our camping intentions.

Camping professionals, year 2

And so one weekend in the summer of 1999, we arrived from our respective corners. Giddy, drunk on freedom and promise. Only to be confronted with a series of rules, regulations, and the tiniest plots known to mankind.

Strange people up in our grill? We had to be quiet at night? Copious swarms of mosquitos? We looked at each other. This would never do.

Ignoring the money we'd plunked down on deposit, we set up camp in Danielle's grandparents' backyard. OK, it was on the other side of the lake in their backyard. Still, we slept in tents, blazed campfires each night, and lived it up.

As much as anyone can live it up in central Illinois.

Hiking at Starved Rock

The locals, Melissa, Danielle, and Sara, raved about a certain pizza place. They'd long talked of Nuggets and Fried Pickles. While we might have looked bug-eyed at their enthusiasm for strange dishes, no one could resist the allure of pizza. We decided to give ourselves a break from camp fare for one night.

Thus, we headed to La Grotto's and life has never been the same.

The pizza place read as a typical hole in the wall. It fit its small town surroundings but would easily be overlooked in a city. I didn't think my friends would steer us wrong. Still, I kept my expectations low.

The garlicky Nuggets- fried bread dough- were an instant hit. Then it was on to the fried pickles. I liked pickles but fried? I wasn't sure what to think.

I lifted a spear to my mouth for the first hot bite. Perfectly seasoned batter complemented by the dill of the pickles. And then ranch dressing for dipping purposes.

They're freaking fried pickles!

Euphoria entered the building. 

Friends let friends eat fried pickles.

We made quick work of those pickles before moving on to deep dish pizza. For me, the star of that evening has and always will be the fried pickles.

Who knew central Illinois housed such fried perfection?

Who knew I would one day become known for my fried pickle obsession?

A tradition was born, along with this new long-distance relationship. We set up camp the next summer and headed to La Grotto's for the usual. The fried pickles didn't disappoint.

And yet, they remained in Peru, IL while I did not. I couldn't find fried pickles in Chicagoland. I didn't want to be a whiny fried pickle aficionado but I needed a fix more than once a year.

Luckily, it became easier to find fried pickles near my hometown. Plus, they're ever prevalent in Nashville.

Even so, dear friends. The fried pickles at La Grotto's will forever be my first love. The standard against which all other fried pickles are measured. The heart wants what the heart wants.

Do you like fried pickles?