People often talk about a sense of belonging. What a sense of belonging means for me is: Home, memories, love of family, comfort, childhood friends, the explorations along woodland paths and through fields, easier and less stressful times, etc.
(Photo caption: George and Marge Brewster( my parents.)
I was happier when we lived at the first house (the first house I remember, which is gone now). We moved to a new house that my dad built a little farther up the street when I started junior high school. The couple of friends I had were never in the same classes as I. For some reason, I couldn’t seem to get along with kids from the more affluent communities.
I was the country hick, came from the wrong side of town – although there wasn’t really a wrong side of town. We lived on a beautiful, tree-lined street. There weren’t any rundown houses. Everyone had nice yards, et al.
I grieved over what I did wrong. Why didn’t anyone like me? Was I such a horrible person? (I always blamed myself and as I grew into a teenager and young adult, I grew to hate myself.)
I could never figure out why I couldn’t get along with others. I was ridiculed throughout my entire school life. No one wanted to play with me. Some would throw things at me on the bus. I was laughed at. Even my brother made fun of me. (Years later when we became friends, he said it was because Dad always teased him.)
When I was 30 years old, I officially changed my name to try to escape the old me who was never liked.
I realize I’ve not had that sense of belonging in my adult life others talk about. Yes, the various places I’ve lived throughout the years were called home, but none had that deep-seated sense of belonging. They were just places where I lived. I feel like the end of a rope flopping in the breeze with no ties. (Which I know isn’t really true.)
Occasionally these past few years, that sense of belonging has passed through my mind from time to time, but I didn’t dwell on it. There was too much to do, too much work to accomplish and all that. Yet, when I look back on my entire life, I’ve done some very interesting things, tried various ventures … funny how late in life, I’ve found my way and became an editor of a newspaper and an artist.
Maybe these feelings are arising more because I am alone (a choice for which there is a price.) I now think of the town I grew up in, and all those comforting memories come back. Every time I think of a library, it’s not the current one of which I am a member, but the Kensington Public Library. I still remember how it smelled back in the ‘60s; that dusky, old aroma still resonates in my soul and brings back happy memories of all those books and Mrs. Blodgett, the librarian.
It’s funny how we realize things later in life. Now I realize there was always a part of me that was very much a loner. I don’t blame people; I just didn’t want to do things the other kids were doing or exactly like they were doing it … and maybe that’s why the didn’t like me.
Yes, there were times when I had fun with others, but there was always that part of me that had to follow my own path. I found my happiness out in the woods, mostly off on my own. I loved following old logging trails and exploring nature.
Now, in my 70s, I often wonder about moving back, but I know, you can never go back. It’s different now. My brother, sister-in-law and I drove down there a few years ago. While some things have changed, there were aspects remembered and memories stirred.



