Roots

I’ve been thinking about this word, “home.” There are so many sayings about home: “home is where the heart is” and “you can’t go home again.” But what exactly does it mean?

I was born in Pittsburgh and have lived most of my life here. When I was little, I used to think that each side of the city was so far away, and the limits of the community I lived in were as far as I would ever want to go. As I got older, I wanted to see the world. I have seen some of it, but for the most part I’ve never lived outside of Pittsburgh. I don’t count going to school a few hours away since it was so close to Pittsburgh, but the one experience I had living somewhere far beyond the city limits was the experience that really defined home for me.

For several months I was living and working in Yellowstone National Park. It’s really an ideal opportunity. While working in the park, you get room and board provided, and you’re only a short stroll away from the area you are working in. I was stationed at the Old Faithful Inn and lived in a dorm right behind it. For three days I travelled across a handful of states, taking in the sights and sounds and smells of it all. I remember my first view of mountains. Real mountains, I thought. Nothing like the Appalachian mountains that ran through Pennsylvania. These were majestic and snow tipped, blushing gold and crimson with the sun rise. Everything was new and fresh and exciting. Even the three feet of snow in May was amazing. And for someone who hates the cold, that’s saying a lot.

Eventually, though, I began to notice these new things and compare them with what I knew. The pines that ran for miles across the flat lands weren’t the same as the beautiful oaks and maples that would turn orange and burgundy in the Fall. And the constant smell of sulfur from the hot springs and geysers wasn’t how it was supposed to smell in the middle of summer. It tainted the smell of wildflowers and blew in great drifts of smoke across the boardwalks that lined the geyser basin.

I enjoyed my time there, but I began to miss the familiar smells of home. The way the forest smells in summer – hot, damp, pure earth – and the way the leaves on the trees would shimmer in the breeze beneath the sun, even the way the city crowded with people at the farmer’s markets, bustling between each other through the enticing smell of almost-salt water and exhaust. I pulled out these memories from somewhere in my head, these things that I had stopped noticing because they were so familiar. And that is when I understood that, for me, home is where you want to be. I was enjoying living in a National Park, but what I really wanted was Pittsburgh.

And when I got home, it was seeing this city, seeing these neighborhoods, with a fresh eye. There are so many things to discover here. Even for those who have lived here for so long. I remember reading an article a few months ago that was written about a group of people who drove around to old, almost forgotten Pittsburgh neighborhoods. Some of them I hadn’t even heard of even though I’ve been here for almost 27 years. There are officially ninety-two neighborhoods of the city of Pittsburgh.

It’s strange to think back on the history of this city, of all of these neighborhoods, and wonder what it was about it that made my parents choose to stay here. Or their parents for that matter. Or my great-grandparents. I think there’s something of a sense of community that bonds all of these neighborhoods and people together. Perhaps it had something to do with the blue-collar steel-millers that were so abundant here. They worked hard for their families and had humble beginnings. Even the great men who so define our city – Carnegie, Mellon, Heinz – they all started from small places and made huge names for themselves. You can actually go to see Andy Warhol’s grave. He was born here, and he’s buried here. Warner Brothers made their start in Pittsburgh by opening the first nickelodeon theatre on the North Side.  These men are true examples of Pittsburgh’s greatness. And I think a bit of that has rubbed off on all Pittsburghers. We have something of an adventurous nature to us, and yet we remain loyal to our home, our roots.

I’m sitting at the window looking out into my new back yard. Although the trees in the woods behind the house are bare, there is a dim light caressing them. The snow is rippled and crusty from the freezing winds, cut across by rabbit tracks that just showed up this afternoon. The old buildings in the back and the worn fence, the gates that are unevenly hung and sway back and forth in the wind, blowing closed with the sharp smack of wood against wood, these things all remind me of what it’s like to have aged here. To be a bit worn and yet still hold so much beauty. And there are things that remind me of the mountains, too. The pine trees that dot the yard and their fragrance. Some of these things are still strange to me, but I am learning their ways. I know that all good things and memories and loves will come together in this place to shape it into a home, just like Pittsburgh has always done.