As a child growing up I idealized my grandparents’ house on Redfern in Detroit as the epitome of home. My own home was dark and dangerous, but theirs felt bright, and elegant, and safe. It was a fantasy place. When they sold it after 25 years to retire to Northern Michigan, I was gutted. Devastated. I visited them begrudgingly, refusing to accept the change.
In 2000 I called my grandfather to tell him I was moving to Los Angeles. There was a quiet on the phone. “That’s really far,” he said. In that moment, in that pause, Stanwood became home. Because it’s where they are.
In 2000 I called my grandfather to tell him I was moving to Los Angeles. There was a quiet on the phone. “That’s really far,” he said. In that moment, in that pause, Stanwood became home. Because it’s where they are.
Welcome to Stanwood.
