The language of “homeless”

I’ve been thinking a lot about language, and how important our word choices are. The other day, a friend and I were talking about Paradise, the town that burned down–you might have heard of it. (It was on the news a lot.) Trump called it “Pleasure”. (Oops). My friend said “displaced people” after I had said “homeless.” But that’s the point. They are not only displaced. Displaced suggests that they have somewhere else to go. They may not have somewhere else to go. It is more important, I think, to recognize they don’t have a home any more, which is much more tragic. Home is that place we all know, many of us love, some of us dream of, and some of us wish we never had to go back to. Even those with painful, messed up, and/or abusive childhoods, even those with shitty childhoods-and I count myself lucky to not be in that group- know what “home,” is, or at the very least, what “home” is supposed to be.

            “Home is where the heart is.” “There’s “no place like home.” And there truly is no place like home. For me, home is a wonderful place. I am lucky enough that there was a lot of joy in my home when I was growing up. There was a lot of laughter, music, and dancing. Oh, how we danced! And great food. My mom is an excellent cook: recipe-less, confident…free. I always admire how good everything she makes tastes. Everything she makes tastes fantastic! Visually, it might not be the most beautiful; she didn’t care about “plating.” There were no parsley flairs or garnishes, and sometimes it might even look downright ugly. She sometimes put the pot of mouthwatering whatever right on the table on a rag or a potholder. It didn’t matter. Whatever it was, it tasted amazing! In my adult years I have marveled at that. If I’m honest, I’m even a little jealous of my Mom’s kitchen skills, especially as I have grown up and now have just one other person to cook for. He’s not a great cook, either.

            Not only is my Mom a wonderful cook, she also has a wonderful way with people. From little kids to old people she can win them over–with or without her cooking. (She likes little kids better, but really, who doesn’t? Even other old people like kids better ). Cooking always helps, of course, but Mom is also funny and smart and kind, really kind. I have said that she has a heart “the size of Texas.” Texas should be so lucky. My Mom’s heart is much, much bigger than the size of Texas, but for the fact that Texas is enormous and somehow my mom’s heart is actually, fortunately, still in and confined to her body.

            As I was saying before I went to Texas, my Mom has an amazing way with people, and with cooking. Oh, and with plants. She has the biggest green thumb of any person I know, except for Frank, who is their random but wonderful old-man friend who grows pot for a living and can drink like nobody’s business. Seriously, it’s none of your business. I don’t know how or when my parents (my Mom and my step-dad, Niels) met Frank. It seems like he’s been in our family’s life for 25 years or even more. (Time goes so fast). My Mom and Niels don’t even smoke pot, so how their paths crossed with Frank’s is a question I will have to ask the next time I go home to visit. Frank has an even bigger “green thumb” than my Mom, which is weird. It’s awkward because when he joins us for dinner you have to put out an extra chair, just so he can rest his enormous thumb on it. Except you don’t really, because it’s just an expression.

            Frank’s green thumb comes in handy, fortunately for the rest of us, through his true calling, his true gift. He grows pot, and he’s really good at it (or so I hear). I’ve never smoked Frank’s goods. It’s not that I’m anti-pot. I’m not, I just don’t smoke it very often (fewer than 10 times in my life, actually, though the number has admittedly and gradually crept up over the years since I first smoked in Amsterdam. The first time I smoked was when I was 25, my husband having to acquire all the accoutrements needed for the expedition. In an Amsterdam coffee shop, having explained to our drug dealer that I am a light weight to the millionth degree, my husband (eventually he would be) used his expertise and 1970s marijuana experience to help us choose the right pot for the occasion, with the help of the drug dealer. Or seller. Whatever.

            First we ordered the smallest amount of “Dutch Orange” a person can order and then, my future husband, the more seasoned of the two of us, but clearly out of practice, managed the experience. “Oh, can we have some matches?…and an ashtray?” Rookies, I tell you, rookies.

            I have never laughed so hard in my entire life. We became convinced that we were having a “mind meld” (as we called it) with the drunk, high Irish guys at the table next to us after we overheard them talking about Superheroes. Wow! We were talking about Superheroes, too! It simply must be a mind meld, right?

The next time we were sober, Spouse and I recognized that we probably weren’t actually having a “mind meld” as much as just over-hearing each other’s conversations. During the getting high process, I excitedly remembered that you can (and probably should) eat brownies when you are 25 years old and smoking pot for the first time. I went to order a brownie, utterly delighted at the prospect. Our drug dealer/seller, politely said, “can I make a suggestion?” I said, “Sure,” because of course, he was the expert in these matters of ordering coffee and brownies in an Amsterdam cafe. What would be his wisdom; what would be his insight, I wondered? He said, “don’t smoke anymore.” To this day I am tickled that years ago, in a coffee bar in Amsterdam, my own dealer/seller suggested that I stop smoking my beautiful first ever marijuana serving. We had smoked less than ½ of one joint.    

            Later we left the Dutch Orange experience to go get ice cream because after the joyful realization that you “can” order and eat brownies when you are high, I realized, quite intelligently I must add, you “can” also eat ice cream. As a grown up, I realize now you “can” always eat brownies and always eat ice cream if you want to. Unless you are lactose intolerant. Or diabetic.

Häagen Dazs was on the way. On the way to where I am not sure, exactly, but it seems to me to involve a field that would take us back toward our hotel. Well, the field wouldn’t take us, like some sort of moving (but level) escalator in an airport that you take when you have plenty of time because it’s usually easier to do than walking unassisted (unless it’s crowded) but who has time to walk in an airport? You have a plane to catch, for Pete’s sake. But on those very rare occasions when you do have the time to take a moving (but level) escalator at the airport, you probably do take it, hoping to not be the one person who stumbles when getting off the moving, level escalator. Maybe that’s just me. So, yeah, I knew the field itself wouldn’t take us, but you know what I mean. Honestly, you people!

            At Häagen Dazs we ordered a kind of ice cream we would not normally choose, but it was exquisite. Butter Pecan. I was amazed by the almost-NASA like process required to shape my tongue into a tool skillful enough to manage the ice cream. First there was the NASA expedition to navigate and move my tongue to accomplish my mission. Then the eating. Oh my God! It was the best ice cream I had ever eaten…until suddenly Spouse became convinced that it had a “rotten spot.” Once he identified this “rotten spot,” I, too, could suddenly taste it. It wasn’t terrible, but it was bitter and just…wrong. Suddenly the best ice cream ever was no longer the best ice cream ever, and we left Häagen Dazs abruptly. And by abruptly, I mean probably quite slowly, ready to begin the next adventure and head back to our hotel.

            On the way we stopped at a small store, sort of a convenience store, which was, in fact, quite convenient because it was on the way to the magical level-escalator field which led back to the hotel. In keeping with the brownie appetizer, main course of ice cream, it was time, as you might have guessed, to get some dessert. Candy. I chose several types, also kinds I would never have at home. (One of the great things I love about traveling is how it opens your mind to try out, explore, and experience new things you don’t normally experience “at home.”) The candy I remember the best was the taffy. Taffy has an amazing personality once you get back to your hotel, your travel base, your temporary home away from home. Taffy is gooey and stretchy and if you hold it and manipulate your fingers, particularly your forefinger and your thumb, it sticks to them! And then it can stretch back and forth, back and forth. Did you know that? Extraordinary!

Frank also grows tomatoes.