... 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.
