So, can you miss someone you never knew? Can you be homesick for a place you’ve never been? The answers to those questions are more complicated than you may think.
I never knew my dad. How could I miss him if I never knew him? What I did know, is I missed what a dad is supposed to represent – in a normal, happy family. I would hear kids in school talk about their dads-and aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents- and I would get sad. Those relationships did not happen for me, for us.
Sis and I grew up without those folks in our lives. We didn’t know how it felt to come home to a two-parent household, one with food in the fridge, electricity all year-round, and family gatherings for holidays and birthdays.
I became Mom’s caregiver when I was ten. Mom was diagnosed (eventually) with Scleroderma. She was on experimental medication that did little to relieve her illness. Sis was five years younger, so I took care of her, too. No dad to help, but plenty of angst at school.
No one seemed interested in our home situation except for the part where the poor kids from Tenney Street made for a school day full of fun times of bullying-they called it “kids teasing kids” back then. So, yeah, I missed having a dad because it’s possible none of that other stuff would have happened.
As far as being homesick for a place I’ve never been, well, yes. I feel like I should be living in Maine. Granted that feeling came over me in the mid-1980s when I discovered Stephen King. I found his book “Cujo” at work one day. I read it and never looked back.
After reading that delightful story, (ha!)I decided that I, too, could be a writer. I wrote to King, got answers for many months, and began my writing journey. I learned a lot about Maine through King’s books and fell in love with the place. I wanted to experience the waves crashing ashore, the leaden-gray skies, the short summers and long winters.
I still miss Maine, except now I know I won’t ever get to go there.
The mail that came from Bangor was a bright spot in my days. Eventually I found out that the woman writing to me, Stephanie, was actually King’s sister-in-law. And one memorable mailing included handwritten advice from King himself. Years later I would find my name in at least two of King’s books. I couldn’t believe my ears when my name was spoken on the big screen as we watched Pet Sematary. What a blast.
Some may wonder how I can read stuff like that, or, given my current situation with my son, how I can watch true crime. I don’t have a pat answer for you. I do agree with the sentiment that when we read horror, we come to the conclusion that no matter how bad our lives are, at least they’re not horrific. I might have to adjust my opinion on that.
For now, though, I’m not going to fight my feelings about my reading choices, or what I watch. Believe it or not, I actually know when a story goes too far and I close the book or turn off the TV.
As for the writing gig that began over 40 years ago, I have a way to go to get back in the groove. Maybe it’ll come back. If it doesn’t, I have a few hundred stories I wrote back in the day. I can always go back and read about what it used to be like to be a writer with hopes and dreams.
