It must be nice to spend
your young life in a place
where the physical and social
landscape feels like
home.
I grew up in the South,
in a part of Florida that is
securely under the buckle
of the Bible Belt. Sure,
there was all that drawling
Southern charm, Spanish
moss and porches in the old
section of town laced with
gingerbread and appointed
with swings and rockers.
But if you pitted zealous
obedience against openminded
curiosity, obedience
always emerged victorious.
If you thought your opinions
might run counter to
the status quo, you didn’t
speak too loudly in restaurants
or let too many people
know how you felt and
thought.
Everyone was presumed
Republican until proven
Libertarian.
I never felt at home.
This week, I was back in
the South — not in my
hometown, but in Richmond,
Va., where my Aunt
Vera lives. I haven’t been
there since last year, when
my grandmother suffered a
double blow from a bout of
shingles and then a stroke,
and things looked bad. It
was a most difficult trip —
draining in the extreme.
My grandmother survived
that, only to die a couple
months later.
In the South, stories often
start out looking very
cheery, only to take unexpectedly
dark turns.
``I’ll always remember
the Fourth of July picnic
where Miss Marguerite
brought that delicious
peach pie and Clem’s oldest
boy lost three fingers in a
freak tug-a-war accident.’’
This trip doesn’t take a
turn that dark.
Throughout my life, I
have enjoyed visiting my
Aunt Vera more than just
about anything else.
When I was a little girl,
her attic was a nirvana of
dress-up possibilities. On
one trip, she allowed me to
wear her silver fox fur stole
throughout the entire visit.
My mother made me remove
it at mealtimes, but I
vaguely recall sleeping with
the thing.
Aunt Vera was the fanciest
of Aunts. I held her
taste to be the pinnacle of
style. She was my Martha
Stewart before there was a
Martha Stewart.
I planned this trip so she
could spend time with Bee
and meet Posey, although I
feared the damage my little
nudist daredevil might be
able to inflict on a house
that had not needed childproofing
in some 30 years.
When we arrived, Vera
showed the girls immediately
to a set of gift bags
filled with just the kinds of
things that little girls adore
— bubbles and a ball decorated
with princesses, an
over-sized princess coloring
book, stickers, a little wooden
stationery caddy with
flowers and butterflies and
an embroidered pillow that
read ``Love.’’
I remembered instantly
why I so enjoyed those visits.
It wasn’t the fact that I
got gifts — which I did —
but the fact that I felt like
my aunt ``got’’ me. She
seemed to understand me
when I didn’t feel understood
in too many places.
I knew she was another
person who had never felt
at home in the hometown
we shared.
She had made her homes
in New England and Washington,
DC, before retiring
to Richmond. I’m not sure
she feels entirely at home
there, either. But if you
visit her, she will do everything
she can to make you
feel at home there.
It’s a remarkable gift to
be able to make people feel
at home. It’s more than
making them feel welcome
and relaxed. It’s about making
people feel understood
and valued just as they
are.
Elizabeth Trever Buchinger
is about to hit the
road. You can connect with
her at www.moremindfulfamily.
wordpress.com.
