Maggie Smith finds beauty and power in remaining in the place she was raised
I’ve looked forward to celebrating the centennial of my house since the day I bought it. Our local public library provides plaques that read “Bexley Century Home” to all homes that turn 100, and to say I’m excited to claim mine next year would be an understatement. It’s just a small blue front-yard marker, but it feels like a badge of honor.
Nearly 15 years ago, I was charmed by this American Foursquare-style house—tall and boxy with cedar shingles, plenty of large windows, and an old coal chute on one side. I still love the French doors, the built-ins, and the creaky original wood floors, all hallmarks of the era. You can tell by walking around my neighborhood that almost half of the houses date to the 1920s and ’30s. Bexley, Ohio, was incorporated as a village in 1908, then became a city in 1932, once it had more than the 5,000 residents required. Today, there are roughly 14,000 people living here, in roughly 5,000 homes—more and more of them with “Bexley Century Home” plaques.
[time-brightcove not-tgx=”true”]In 2010, I moved into this house with my husband and one-year-old daughter, who had just taken her first steps a few weeks earlier. Now that toddler is a sophomore in high school, she has a younger brother who’s starting middle school, and their father lives in another state. When my marriage ended, I fought hard to stay in this old house, despite its upkeep, and despite its ghosts. I wanted to keep my children in our neighborhood, in their school district, within walking distance of their friends, and only a short drive from their grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. This house—this community—is the only home they’ve ever known.
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I know that my ability to make that commitment to my children is a privilege. To choose where I live and to put down roots is a privilege. For many, staying put isn’t an option. People leave home for all kinds of reasons. They can’t afford to stay, because of divorce, or the death of a family member, or gentrification. They might move to seek work, or better opportunities, or more freedom. Or they leave to escape violence, persecution, or human rights violations.
Starting over isn’t always an empowered choice or an exciting adventure, but a desperate and painful necessity. I know more than one family who has had to move so that their trans children would have access to comprehensive health care. I know families that are encouraging their teenage daughters to consider colleges and universities only in states where they will have access to abortion. Increasingly, here in the United States, laws have made some states particularly unsafe for women and LGBTQ+ people.
Whatever the circumstances, and whether you are someone who stayed or someone who left, I think everyone has a love-hate, push-pull relationship with home. I chose to stay put. I live about 20 minutes from my childhood home in a neighboring suburb, where my parents still live. Each Sunday we all gather there for family dinner—my parents and sisters, their spouses, and our children; 13 of us, ages 6 to 76. When I tell people about Sunday dinner, they have one of two reactions. One is “Oh, that’s so special! I wish I had that kind of closeness with my family.” The other is something along the lines of, “Oh, hell no.”
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I understand both reactions.
On one hand, it might feel stifling to remain in the place where you were raised. There’s so much to experience elsewhere—other places, people, cultures, and ways of life. A leap can be powerful and transformative, and sometimes what we need is a fresh start. Perhaps it’s easy to stagnate if you stay in one place too long, to end up in a rut, while moving makes reinvention easier.
On the other hand, there’s beauty and power in growing where you’re planted and building relationships over decades. I’ve written at length about this in my memoir—what it means to feel held in a place and by a community, particularly in difficult times. More than a house, a neighborhood, or a state, people are home. I can’t imagine weathering years of divorce and custody litigation, or raising two children on my own, far from my people.
My century home is haunted, not only by the ghosts of my former life, but by all of the families who lived here before me. Other hands have washed dishes—and babies—in this kitchen sink, turned the knob to open the front door and called out their beloveds’ names as they announced their return: “I’m home!” Other parents and children have slept and dreamed in these bedrooms; other arguments have happened here, and other repairs.
It’s a gift to be a steward of this history, these memories. This house has been ours for only about 10% of its lifetime. We’re just a chapter in its story. Searching public records, I can see who lived in the house before us, and I wonder about their lives here.
Last year, I received an email, subject line: house. The woman wrote that she was about 25% through my memoir when she had a strange feeling about the house I’d described. After a quick Google search, she realized she was right: It had been her house. She sold it to us.
As my house nears its 100th birthday, I’m reminded of how fortunate I am to be steeped in history—my own, and the other families who have lived here. But most of all, I’m fortunate to have had a choice to stay or, if I’d wanted a different life for my family, to go. I don’t take that for granted. I’m planning to throw the house a 1920s-themed birthday party: fairy lights in the backyard; Prohibition-era cocktails; a jazz playlist of “Sweet Georgia Brown,” “Yes Sir! That’s My Baby,” and other popular songs from that year.
At the party, I imagine there will be a backyard full of friends and neighbors—the people who make this neighborhood and dwelling home. There will be drinks and music and laughter. And before my children and I blow out the candles on the birthday cake, we’ll all sing together.
