Where All Your Yesterdays Are Buried Deep

It seems I am stranded again.

Strangers are prowling around my home, exploring its rooms and decor and circling the backyard pool. They point at things and discuss details. I know this thanks to the security cameras that link to my smartphone.

My wife and I recently put our house on the market, having decided to downsize a bit. We seldom use our pool, and we’re tired of the landscaping maintenance and overall expense. We hope to move nearby to a simpler house with a view of the Las Vegas strip.

Yesterday we were displaced twice as our realtor met with potential buyers. It’s quite a production, gathering our two dogs and cat, quickly prepping the house for viewing, and then fleeing to my mother-in-law’s vacation house nearby.

This morning my realtor phoned and said one of yesterday’s clients was interested in a second look. “Could you be out in an hour?” she asked. I gulped down the last of my coffee, leashed up the dogs, and eyed the cat. Somehow the cat smelled a rat and darted off into the bedroom.

Cats can be difficult that way.

I eventually fished the cat out from under the bed and slid him, butt first into his cat carrier. He wasn’t happy, but then, neither was I. All of this real estate maneuvering and juggling of pets keeps me from my writing and creative work.

And it’s not just the temporary inconveniences. Knowing you’ll soon be leaving one home for another invites a sort of liminal state. You feel unsettled, and unmoored, and sense the porousness of boundaries. The uncertainty of the future.

So here I am, temporarily displaced at my mother-in-law’s vacation house. It’s a lovely place, and I’m thankful that it’s close by. But it’s also chilly and too quiet since no one is presently staying here.

Homes are not homes without the people you love in them.

As I type these words, the dogs are napping on the sofa. The cat, who I released inside a small guest room, is vigorously pawing the door and endlessly meowing. It’s quite distracting, but then, that’s his objective.

Thankfully, there’s Internet access and I have the passcode. I sit back, jockeying the MacBook on my lap, and close my eyes. Where have I been, what is this middling place, and where am I headed?

I roll these questions over in my mind.

The future lives in a cloud, formidable from a distance

Last week I was in California to give a eulogy for a close friend’s mother who passed away (read about it here).

I stayed a few days with my friends and then tried to drive home, but winter weather and snow closed all the routes back (watch a video I shot of the snow here).

Stranded in Northern California, I considered lodging in Los Gatos, the town I grew up in. I thought it would be fun to drive into the hills and up Hidden Drive, where my childhood home is now occupied by a wealthy woman who bought the property from my mother not long after Dad passed away.

But I changed my mind.

My childhood home is still standing, but no one from my family, my past, lives there anymore. I thought of George Webber.

In Thomas Wolfe’s novel, “You Can’t Go Home Again,” the writer George Webber comes to realize that we can never fully “go back home to your family, back home to your childhood…away from all the strife and conflict of the world…back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed everlasting but which are changing all the time.”

If you can’t go home again, then how about the place where you spent your career? I considered booking a hotel room in Scotts Valley, where I have in-laws, friends, and 26 years of devoted service in the police department. After all, I enjoy my family and friends there and know the town intimately.

But for some reason, it didn’t feel right.

Scotts Valley has changed. Almost no one I know is left in the police department where I used to work. The town looks and feels different. It’s a beautiful community full of wonderful people, but I don’t belong there anymore. Perhaps I miss the past too much and going back tethers me securely to memories when what I need to do is keep moving forward.

Towards new memories. New homes.

I have learned that if you must leave a place that you have lived in and loved and where all your yesteryears are buried deep, leave it any way except a slow way, leave it the fastest way you can. Never turn back and never believe that an hour you remember is a better hour because it is dead. Passed years seem safe ones, vanquished ones, while the future lives in a cloud, formidable from a distance. — Beryl Markham, West with the Night

And so I settled on the coastal town of Carmel, where I often vacationed with my parents. Being stranded in Carmel isn’t so bad. There are countless art galleries, fine restaurants, beaches, and opportunities for me to shoot some street photography.

Downtown Carmel, California

My wife is far more talented with travel arrangements than I am, and she was kind enough to research local accommodations and book me in a cozy hotel room with a fireplace. The first day in Carmel was raining and chilly, and I felt a touch of melancholy. So many fond memories of relaxing with my folks on the beach, exploring art galleries, and dining together.

The ache for home lives in all of us. The safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned. — Maya Angelou, All God’s Children Need Traveling Shoes
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But happily, the melancholy lifted the minute I picked up my rangefinder-style camera and began shooting candid photos of my surroundings. By the second day, the sun came out and I was thoroughly enjoying myself, wandering and shooting photographs.

The more I explored and snapped street photographs, the more I realized the therapeutic value of a creative practice like photography.

Don’t shoot what it looks like. Shoot what it feels like

My parents and I always enjoyed the tasty bakeries in Carmel, so I ambled into one and ordered a coffee and cookies. They did not disappoint. I could almost hear my mother’s voice laughing as she nibbled on a croissant, and my father’s voice warning us not to ruin our dinner appetites.

My coffee and cookies at the Carmel Bakery

All around me there were tantalizing baked goods and treats, and people pleasantly chatting and enjoying themselves. The display window was overflowing with delicious offerings, and I raised my camera to capture some of the mouthwatering morsels in the window.

Treats in the Carmel Bakery window

When I lowered my Fuji X-Pro 3 rangefinder camera, I noticed a gentleman staring longingly at the baked goods in the window display. It looked like he was about to stroll inside and satisfy his craving, but then a woman snaked her arm around his and lured him away down the street.

When I took this man’s photograph, I recalled the following quote by photographer David Alan Harvey:

Don’t shoot what it looks like. Shoot what it feels like.

The man outside the bakery window, longingly looking inside

After my coffee and cookies, I took to the streets and happened upon a lovely garden sculpture of the Loch Ness monster. The best part was the hat that Nessie was wearing. It reminded me of some of the old golf hats my father used to wear.

My photo of the Loch Ness monster wearing a stylish hat

I meandered in and out of many galleries, enjoying conversations here and there with the proprietors. The artwork rekindled my desire to get back to landscape painting this year.

I visited the intimate, bohemian gallery of Joaquin Turner, but it was closed. I met Joaquin a few years ago in the gallery and bought one of his pieces. On this day, all I could do was take a photo of the old paint boxes in his gallery window.

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Paint boxes inside the Joaquin Turner art gallery window display.

Later, I strolled by the Carmel Fire Station and took a photo of their roll-up doors from across the street. I interacted and worked with many firefighters over the years in my law enforcement career, and have great respect for the men and women of the fire service.

The Carmel Fire Station

Carmel Fire Department engine later that night, returning from a call for service

I took a break in the late afternoon to enjoy another coffee at the Carmel Plaza. Young people sat across from me, enjoying the sunshine and coffee. And adjacent to them sat an older couple, also enjoying the day.

Memories of shopping with my parents in the Plaza floated through my mind, and I felt a kind of deep warmth and happiness. Our yesteryears may be buried deep, and it may be important not to live in the past, but sometimes those old memories invite feelings of love and joy.

Young couple, enjoying coffee in the Carmel Plaza

Young men, enjoying the sun and coffee at the Carmel Plaza

An older couple, enjoying coffee and sun at the Carmel Plaza

I ended my second day in Carmel by driving down Highway 1 to an outdoor shopping center at the base of Carmel Valley.

Despite all the multi-million dollar homes and wealthy people who reside in Carmel, there are others just trying to survive along the margins of society. I parked next to a run-down old truck and noticed an older fellow dead asleep inside.

Man sleeping in his truck-Carmel, California

It looked like he might live in his truck, and he reminded me that perhaps we’re all in transition. Going from one place, or home, to another.

Across the parking lot, a woman seated outside a Starbucks was lost in her phone as her little dog, decked out in a checkered vest, surveyed his surroundings. A gentleman inside the Starbucks, seated at a window, appeared to be praying. I wondered who, or what he was praying for.

Woman with dog, and man praying. Carmel, California

I ended the day back in Carmel, where I shot the below self-portrait in the public restroom on the third floor of the Carmel Plaza before I enjoyed dinner at a local establishment.

Inclement weather may have prevented me from driving home to Nevada, and at first, I felt inconvenienced. But as my wife often says, “We do not live in a coincidental universe.”

Maybe things happen for a reason. Perhaps, after eulogizing someone dear and mourning with friends, I needed this time in Carmel. I needed to be alone, to reminisce, and to mingle among strangers with my camera, documenting the beautiful stories and rhythms of everyday life.

Home is people. Not a place

As luck would have it, the roads home were finally opened, thanks to the hard work of emergency responders and CalTrans workers. It felt good to be home again, with my wife, son, dogs, and spoiled cat.

This brings me back to today, sitting at my mother-in-law’s vacation home, ruminating about all the past homes I’ve lived in.

I thought about Hidden Drive, where I grew up with my sister in my parents’ home. I used to build tree houses and fasten rope swings and pretend to be Tarzan in the woods.

There were my dorm rooms at University. Each one was distinctively mine, but temporary. And yet they hold pleasant memories of late-night studying, beer busts, and laughter.

There were a few rented apartments early in my police career, and eventually, a lovely condo that is still perhaps my favorite home. My wife and I raised my son there and enjoyed birds, squirrels, and raccoon visits on the deck. And later, when my mother moved to assisted living, we sold the condo and moved into her house.

Later, I retired from the police department in California and we moved to Southern Nevada, into our current home. My mother followed us, finding a wonderful assisted living nearby. Home for my mother was wherever her family was.

Home is people. Not a place. If you go back there after the people are gone, then all you can see is what is not there anymore. — Robin Hobb, Fool’s Fate

Turns out I was never stranded.

My time in California was an important reminder that while we can never quite go home again, we can certainly visit and remember. We can help old friends in their time of need. We can wander the Carmel streets we enjoyed with our parents, and smile at the memories.

And even when the time comes to move on from one home to another, we can rest assured that we are never really stranded so long as we have our loved ones around, either physically or in spirit.

Change is one constant in an ever-changing universe, but so is the love of family. And wherever your family resides, that’s home.

Before you go

I’m John P. Weiss. I write elegant stories and essays about life. Often illustrated with my photography and artwork. For the latest, check out my free Saturday Letters here.

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This post was previously published on Medium.com.

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