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By Barry ZeVan A house is not a home. That statement is offered here in it’s purest form, and in my opinion, from experience, definitely true, and not meant to be identified with the more well-known origin of that statement, i.e., the title of Polly Adler’s best-selling mid-20th century book chronicling the less-than-glamorous life in a house of ill-repute. Indeed, having owned three houses during my almost 72 years of life (Las Vegas, Detroit and Minneapolis), and having paid rent for numerous others, as well as apartments, from a crumbling hovel in Tacoma, WA, to a mini-mansion in suburban D.C., and all sizes and degrees of livability in-between, I can readily identify which place felt most like a home – without trying to be politically-correct, the house in which I’ve lived in Golden Valley since 1984 would win the prize. There are several reasons, and I think they apply to many basic “identifiers” for any home-owner, ranging from the anticipation of returning to that home after traveling (especially overseas) to the comfort of familiar surroundings, which are also married to the decidedly-good, and rare, (these days) feeling “at peace” once the front door closes after entering the abode. Of course, if the home is also filled with love and caring from those who also live there, the security factor is definitely amplified. The latter, in my opinion, personifies the adage (or clichÈ), “Home is where the heart is,” but what brings us to what we think of as “home”? Where we’ve lived from birth to the present day? Events that occurred in those residences? In my opinion, finally realizing we’re “home” is the culmination of a composite of events that shaped and impacted our minds to feel we’d arrived “home.” I’d like to share some of my own life-shaping events, directly wed to the domiciles in which I lived, paralleling those events, as follows: Because of the nuances of my chosen primary profession…the broadcasting industry…I decided that industry would allow me the luxury to move often (if I wished) and see as much of the country and the world as possible. That thinking proved to be valid, and except for only being fired once (from my first local broadcasting job, at KCAP-AM in Helena, Montana, circa 1957), the choices I made to move were one-hundred percent my decision. Where we’ve lived is, I think, part of the tapestry that eventually defines who we are, and enriches our life experiences. My first rental “on my own” was a one bedroom apartment in the aforementioned Helena, in a home owned by a wonderful elderly couple whose last name was Lovely, and they were. The cost was $45 a month, including all utilities. In 1957, that was very doable for a kid making $55 a week. During my first “term” of living in the Twin Cities, I only rented, first in Maplewood, then in West St. Paul. That was some rental. The landlady said she was happy to have “solid” renters, thus we rented the bottom 12 rooms of a 24 room duplex on Prescott Street, near the now defunct Riverview Memorial Hospital, for $200 a month, including utilities. Thanks to that wonderful woman, we were able to save some respectable amounts of money, and all the great memories made that rental one of the most memorable “homes” in which I ever lived. I rented a 14-room mini-mansion in Potomac, Maryland when I quit KSTP-TV for what I thought was a good career move to Washington, D.C. The career move was bad, the house was good, and one could also consider it a “home,” as it housed many halcyon party days with some of the broadcasting industry’s “giants” in those days. Ted Koppel was a nearby neighbor. It would take many more articles to get us through my Detroit years to arrive at the Golden Valley domicile, my home since 1984, but suffice it to say, if this wasn’t “THE” home of my life most identified with that very comforting word, I don’t know what would be. |
Of Houses and Homes