Knopp's book is divided by definitions, which I thought was interesting. She used a word and its definition as a chance to set up the following essay. Her words are nostalgia, home, alien and native, creative, citizen, body, consume, beauty, faith, adaptation, niche, sojourner, history, settle, hearth, neighbor, community, relic, metaphor, quintessence, heaven and homewell. Each addresses a different idea of what home is.
For many, home is a building where a family spends its time and makes its memories. Knopp says that's part of what home is. But home as an idea is more than that. It's the history of the area, its geography, flora and fauna and its people.
While I don't necessarily agree with all her conclusions, I do understand her jumping off point. Knopp is a native Nebraskan and spent several years outside the state. She felt a physical yearning for "home" so strong that she was sick until she moved back. When I lived in South Carolina, I wanted nothing more than to come back to Nebraska, to see the star-spangled sky without city lights intruding, to watch the sun set over the horizon, not over a cityscape. I missed the space I associated with home, and by space I don't just mean the outline on a map. I mean the area - the air, sneezing at corn pollen, smelling new-mown hay; the sights, clouds rolling across the sky, water towers from miles away; the sounds, cattle lowing, tractors puttering along country roads. I felt claustrophobic in the city, as though the windows of buildings taller than any I knew were eyes watching my every move. I felt trapped in the city's maze of streets. Although I found my way around, there were way too many people and cars - too much civilization for one such as I.
Back on the flat lands of the prairie, I'm comfortable. Some may feel exposed on the prairie. I feel more confident. I know, or I can find, where I'm going. I like trying to guess how far away a grain elevator or water tower is. It's fun to speculate on who's raising the cloud of dust on the gravel road. And the one-finger wave is a staple (that's the index finger, by the way). The sounds of the wind rustling through the wheat or corn stalks, the cattle mooing as they meander around their pastures, the farm equipment as it moves from one field to another - they're the sounds I know.
Some day, in all my free time, maybe I'll attempt my own set of essays about the nature of my home. I could use the same words Knopp chose, share how they relate to me and write about them. Because our experiences and belief systems are different, my book would be different from her's. But there would be similarities because we both understand how important the idea of home is.
