An ultra-conservative's views on this and that

18 October 2013

Closing

... a chapter. A sale.

On a home that isn't one anymore, and hasn't been for a while.

In February of 2004, I closed on my house in Minnesota.  I was so excited to buy my first house.  Moving out of my apartment.  Parking my car in a garage.  Playing my stereo as loud as I wanted.  Doing laundry @ 2 a.m. if needs be,  & not needing to hoard quarters.

Then came mowing my lawn.  The conventional wisdom is right:  There are few things more satisfying than working in your own yard.  To tame the chaotic & wild nature of the grass, to battle the weeds.  Just the way it looks after it's been cut evenly.

Initially, it was too much space.  I went from a one-bedroom apartment in the 800 sq. ft range to a nearly 1800 sq ft 3-bedroom house with a spacious family room downstairs.

I enjoyed wiring the basement for my surround-sound system.  I enjoyed adding wire shelving to the garage, upstairs bathroom, and upstairs bedroom closets.  Laying out and planting a vegetable garden.  Wiring up electrical outlets on posts in the front yard to support my array of Halloween and Christmas decorations.

I even enjoyed shoveling snow in the artic cold of a Minnesota winter.

Over time, I replaced appliances:  The refrigerator.  The water softener.

Over time, I acquired things:  A kitchen table and chairs, a patio table and chairs, crystal stemware.  Bed, sofa, bookshelves, and a desk.  A lawn mower, a trimmer, shop vac, power tools.

After months in the house on my own, my girlfriend moved in with me when her apartment became a potential health hazard from the suspected drug lab next door.  At times, the house didn't feel empty, but crowded.  Pets played in the basement.

Then my employment opportunities changed.  I found myself 250 miles to the south of my house.  For a year and a half, it sat empty.  Well, empty of my presence.  I periodically drove up and checked on things.  When my contract job in Des Moines became full time, I moved the rest of my belongings south.  A couple of months later, an opportunity arose for me to rent the house, so I hung on to it for another two years, checking in on it with less frequency, especially after I started dating the woman who would become my wife.  After proposing to my wife, I saw the house differently:  It was extremely unlikely I would reoccupy it, so I saw it more as anchor around my neck.  Late this summer, I put the house on the market.

I didn't get what I wanted for it, but I walked away with some money in my pocket nonetheless.

Five days ago, I saw my house for the last time.  As I pulled away with the trailer attached, I felt somber.  Closing on the house was a closing on a segment of my life.

But it was easy to drive away:  It was just a piece of property.  No longer a home.  It hadn't been one for years.

No my home was to the south, about 250 miles.  And there was a woman there, waiting for me.

A house is just a structure.  A home is much more than that.