Some Things You Need to Know

Look Ma, No Hands

Ink tusche. Let her ride, she'll go. Horizons become endangered; the sprawl is on. Assist by water.

We've got ourselves quite a little soiree here. Double check for animal shapes, it's fun. You might find yourself too.

Down by the River

Recently, while on an early morning Nook and Crannying session out at the parentals, the woods yielded a new spot. Go past old Ellen’s house, scramble down a knoll past all sorts of trunky ruins, cross an earnest little length of field, and behold: a live creek runs. At times, it seems to be running for long distance, and at other times it might just be frolicking with its shoes untied, tripping over itself in a series of splendid faceplants. It all depends on how you listen. As John Berger says, “Receptivity is everything.”

Good man.

On the bank, a throne beckons. Sit. From there, watch as an aerial bird ballet accomplishes itself. A tree sways, still drunk from imbibing in last nights moon drench. A myriad of rustles, crunches, and amorphous babel (was that a bird fart?) abound. The air is vigorous; it carries January’s bite in its wake, and despite the warmth of Spring’s recent encroachments, the cold teeth serve to remind us of winter’s vitality. All of these things are gifts, and to not accept them would be to wage war against the giver. That’s why Berger is so right. To truly receive is an art; to appreciate, to observe, to internalize, maybe even to become. There’s nothing passive about it; to accept oftentimes requires more energy and awareness than to bestow. Sometimes it’s harder, like accepting another person for who they are. And sometimes, all it takes is a little jaunt down to the creek, to soak up some A.M. goodness, and to listen to the bird farts.

Nest

When the rocks start to crunch under the wheels, just after the last right turn, we all recite in unison: “home sweet home.” Cliché? Maybe, but it makes me beg the question: what’s so “sweet” about the 5665 Wyant Lane abode? For once again we find ourselves here - four Hermann pieces of the puzzle, reconvening at the center of our universe for the Holidaiyez. I reckon we should all take a step back and reconsider what makes us return home. ‘Tis the season, nay?

Before you even enter “The Sanctuary,” heed the path’s subtle introductions; the steadily expanding fairy garden metropolis on your left; the prayer flags above the door perpetuating our hippie stereotype. Self-deprecation aside, you are welcome here. They say (yeah, those people) that turning the handle of a door is the handshake of a building. I’d like to point out that ours doesn’t have a lock, which Gareth “G-Spot” Hermann sees as a greater metaphor: “the door to our house is like the door to our hearts – it’s always open.” C’mon in folks, t’aint nothing to hide here.

Yup - Momma’s got baked goodness bangin’ in the kitchen, Sinatra’s croons are drifting lazily on woodstove heat waves, while opaque tissue paper transparencies quietly allow the outside world in. The knick-knacks have completed their annual pilgrimage from the woodwork, and now replace the junk mail and various clutter of old with neat scenes of nativity and hand-made simplicity. When I come home, I look more deeply at the things that surround me. Oma’s embroidery feels just right between the thumb and forefinger. The baby pictures breathe carefully on embers of the past, and squirrel wars beyond the worn sliding glass door are played out with valor and shocking passion. It’s here that things normally taken for granted step forth and demand the awareness of our wayfaring, fickle consciences. In a mad, mad world, this place pays homage to authenticity’s last stand.

When we pause for the appreciation of details, it becomes clear that we also gather again because the conch shell has been raised and sounded in the name of Chill. Repose is the name of the game, and thus the pace of activity has slowed to a crawl, and finally passed out (we’re not sure if it’s the woodstove or the frequent food comas). The ottoman’s “no vacancy” sign will maintain its status, playing host to visiting feet. Cups of chai, hot chocolate, and tea will occupy our hands—if we can get off the couch to make them. The place is one massive pit stop, a collective moment to sit down, kick back, and think out. Eyes glaze over, and cozy reigns supreme once more.

The distinct elements of this down-home atmosphere are drawn and threaded to one another by our shared experiences, and thus, every time we return, this place gently places a historical quilt on our shoulders. This is especially true for my brother and me. As Rebecca Solnit says, there is a “tangible landscape of memory, the places that made you, and in some way you become them too. They are what you can possess and what in the end possesses you.” Our parents created this place and it, in turn, shaped and molded us. That’s not to say that our parents didn’t mold us; rather, the creation of our identities is tightly wound in the feelings and emotions associated with events that have transpired here. All around us are wisps of memory that delineate the landscapes within us. For the bros. Hermann, to be Home is to return to the source, to realize a life full of meaning.

Our parents live that life year-round, as fulfillment tops the to-do list, creating a paradigm that us younglings look up to with wide eyes. My dad points to a carved wooden bowl on the bottom shelf, the first one that he made in 1973. He rubs his hands over the worn edges, turns it over in recollection. He’s lost in his own landscape; one that he shares with us, yet that also contains wilderness known only to him. Together, the terrains of our four memories form one world. One sweet, sweet world that continually calls us back. One world we call Home.

So American