The Houses on Memory Lane

34 years old. Been living between Minneapolis and St. Paul now for fifteen years. I keep moving back and forth over the river. Every move, I end up in a new neighborhood, and there have been so many homes at this point that driving around this town has become somewhat of a constant turn down Memory Lane.

My very first apartment wasn't actually mine: straight after graduation from the Arts High School, I shacked up with my guitarist-friend-turned-boyfriend in the Stevens Square neighborhood, in the old building on the corner of 3rd and Franklin. When I drive by, I can see the windows to our first-floor studio. I remember long, hot days, listening to the Cocteau Twins "Four Calendar Cafe," and drinking Jack Daniels Tennessee Teas on ice. I can hear a faint echo of his beautiful strumming and unique tunings on that beat-up guitar. I muse how, back then, at 18 years old, I had such a pure, high, clear voice and all I wanted was some grit and depth. Now, after twenty years of living and smoking and drinking and occassionally screaming, I wish I could hit those notes as clearly as they came to me back then. I drive by, and miss my old friend,who chose to walk a hard road in this life. I kept my eyes on him, kept tabs on him, for so many years, until all the tears shed for him blinded me at last. I miss his tunes. I mourn his talent. I'm angry at his choices. But, I miss those easy days back then... days when my imaginings of the future were far from what was on its way, and destined to be.

Years later (after my nearly 4-year stint living abroad in Mexico), I came back home and got my very own first apartment, on Ridgeway -that hilly street that winds up behind Rudolph's on Lyndale. It was a small one-bedroom, very long and oddly laid out. It was there I brought home my kitten, Lilly, who celebrates ten years with me next month. It was also there and in that time when I met the love of my life, the one who got away, the one I'll always wonder most about. He was a waiter at the Loring (the REAL Loring, that those in the know are forever bound to by nostalgia and grief), and the day came when I gave him my number. He called at 3am, awakening me, and asked if I'd like to come over for some vegetable juice. Pleased that he called, and charmed by the unique request (points for creativity), I declined. We made a more appropriate date later that week, and when I went to pick him up, we never made it out of the house. Unknowing, we had begun a relationship that would span nearly four years as lovers, and last a lifetime as family.

I moved next to a 2nd floor unit on the corner of 26th and Harriet. A beautiful apartment that I really made into my first HOME. Still dating the love of my life, he lived a convenient three blocks away. I loved that apartment, and when I drive by now, I always say "Hello," and smile. I was in my mid-20s living there, right in the center of Uptown and all kinds of movement and entertainment. I learned to really cook in that home. I held down my first teaching jobs in that home. I started to sing for bands and dance companies, entering into the Minneapolis scene in that home. It was good to me. It was a happy place, for the most part... except for one night, in particular.

It was the night when I was awakened by a night hawk, and found the power had gone out. It was the night I had walked over to my love's house, and found him in bed, pleasuring another. It was the first time I had been so betrayed (but wouldn't be the last). It was the first time my heart had truly been broken. I recall the tears, the sickness, the wild bewilderment that occurred in that home. I sing in my head the many songs born from that pain. I gave birth to an album of hurt in that home. I guess you could say, it was in that place I finally found my deeper voice, and some real, true grit.

After some time and distance apart, my love and I reunited, and chose to establish a more committed relationship together. At that time, his mother offered us a house to rent in Frogtown, in St. Paul. I knew nothing about St. Paul, and could see by driving through that Frogtown was a far cry from Uptown. Yet, to have a whole house for a screaming $520/mo, well, we took her up on the offer. We spent close to three years living in that house together, I think. I'd painted all the walls in varied, intense colors. We gardened. We cooked beautiful food together. Osho came into our lives, little fluffball of a Chow pup that he was. I embraced a new side of my being, the Martha Stewart within, and fell in love with our domestication. Yet, after all those years, as my passion for a life of love and marriage and children intensified, my love's dwindled.

At one point in that home we had an entirely civilized conversation, and decided it best we no longer be in a committed relationship. It was a mutual decision, as plain as, "So, we're not together anymore?" "No, I guess not." "Okay... I'm off to work. Dinner later?" We continued to live in that house, and even sleep in the same bed for many months or years later, I can't keep it straight. Our partnership had remained as a familial friendship. People thought we were crazy, and maybe it was odd, after all. Yet, to this day, our love and commitment to each other remains in tact. We will forever be in each other's lives, loving and caring for one another... being there in times of need. He shares that home now with his new love, and has for several years. When I've driven by, I am mindful that it is their home now, and not ours. But I relish each Spring when he calls to tell me that the Bleeding Hearts I'd planted are in bloom. Symbolic, I guess, of those years, and our enduring love.

Back to Uptown it was, to a house on 34th Street, I then rented with my new husband. He had immigrated from Israel in the dead of winter, and while we were house hunting, I knew the Uptown area would be the best - urban, busy, easy to get around. Piled in snow, his undeveloped imagination refused to believe that this neighborhood was any better than Frogtown. He resisted as I insisted. We were 5 blocks from Lake Calhoun, on a peaceful street with kind neighbors, and got a great deal on an entire 2-bedroom house for $800/mo.

This would be the house of my marriage. The house of so much sacrifice and struggle. The house of hard work, hard times, hard love. We had so many hopes, such wonderful intentions, such amazing natural gifts bestowed upon us as individuals, that it seemed (early on) we would be a dream team. Nothing was farther from the truth. Our differences, which we originally thought would serve to balance our lives, kept us ever at an ocean's length of sympathy or understanding for the other. We tried. We tried SO hard. We loved each other, of course, but in our case, love just wasn't enough.

This was also the house I lived in when my father died. This house heard the death cries, the banshee screams. This house battled my own wishes for death, contained my grief and rage, swallowed my desperation. This house was fed on tears, shouting, abuse, lonliness, and abandonment. It was a pretty little house, a nice house, and yet when I see it now, I am ever reminded of the pain that lived there, the failures. My failures and grief. I feel sad when I drive by that one... regretting so much... wishing it had been so different.

Back to St. Paul, on my own again. To the "other side" this time: the beautiful and quiet Mac/Groveland college and single-family home dwelling area, which provided me with a sense of safety and security for the first time in years. I was making a new beginning... entering my mid-30s, freshly divorced, my life in my own hands again. It felt good to make this house my home, just as I wanted it, with no one to argue about the colors I chose or the art on the walls. I was able to infuse this home with my own energy - ALL my own - and know there would be no repercussions, no disturbances. It took time to get used to that, to accept it. Of course, I battled lonliness and fear, sadness and longing for what felt comfortable (even if it was unhealthy for me).

Here, in this home, I met myself again, for the first time since that apartment on 26th and Harriet, years and years before. This house allowed me to be me, reflected my spirit back to me in its shape and comfort. This place uncovered my inner confidence and strength, where I proved to myself that I didn't need anyone to help make my life work - that I was doing it, and enjoying life more than ever! I was inspired, and began to dream again - dream of the life that I tuly wanted for myself, and took steps I had never been brave enough to take in the past towards seeing those dreams come true. In this house, I returned to my true path and began to step into my full potential. I can honestly say... this is the house where I met my grown woman self.

Two weeks ago, I moved into my new house, my current house: an upper-level duplex in the Linden Hills areas of Minneapolis (yes, back over the river AGAIN). I moved in, sight unseen, as I was bedridden, and pre-spinal surgery before the move. My friends facilitated everything: from packing to moving to post-surgery care and unpacking. I've been here all of three weeks now, and thus far, it has been the house of healing. Healing my back, healing my heart, healing hurt relationships of the past, healing the child within. The neighborhood is an upgrade: even more beautiful and more peaceful than the last. I also am trying on a non-boyfriend/husband roommate for the first time ever, which is a change that so far has been great. I am enjoying exploring this new 'hood, just 2 blocks from Lake Harriet. I muse, wondering how long I'll be here, what stories of life will unfold, and what will the memories be this time? The wondering fills me with excitement, hope and just a little fear.

These twin cities get smaller and smaller to me with each passing year. I see so many ghosts running around, it can be plaguing at times: seeing the hidden path I would walk my dog after Dad died; passing by restaurants that have changed names countless times, yet still harbor old meetings wth friends, some who are no longer with us today; new construction wiping out old buildings where I have kissed, danced, fought, and run into faces unseen for years. Clubs where I sang my heart out. Lakes, around which my feet have pounded pavement. Streets I would take to get to this job or that. Old routines I remember as if they'd never changed or been broken.

After all these years, I am finally willing to say that I love Minnesota. There's simply just no more denying that it is, and has been, home. And as I keep moving from place to place, hard to keep up with as usual, you will always most surely find me strolling down Memory Lane. The home of all my homes.