At some point in late October, I got an email passing on the news I knew I would at some point hear... my parents were planning on selling their house. Although this was not a 100% surprise, it felt like a sock to the gut. My father has not been doing well for the past 18 months, and as they move from diagnosis to diagnosis, he's becoming a shell of the father I've known most of my life... but that's another post...
With my father not doing as well and all of us *children* long grown and gone, the house was becoming too much. The yard, a block long, was even more so. While my parents have help to attend to a number of things, there are many things they love to do themselves. The gardens were one of them. They've had the continual battle between my mother's choice of perennials and my father's love of annuals... I think for a moment my mother actually saw victory at hand what with Dad not being able to get out there and *unknowingly* rip out a perennial in order to make room for his master plan... but in reality, my mother wasn't up for that much yard either.
No, they would be selling the house they built some 43 years ago... the only childhood home I've ever really known. And what a house it was/is. It's a wonderful house with plenty of room, plenty of character. It's a house with a wonderful location. A house with a long history of living in it. My parents have never shied away from having people over whether it be for a year or a night. We had an assorted 4-7 exchange students, some legitimate, some who sent siblings back in later years, some who just needed a place for the weekend. There has always been an interesting group of people meandering through the doors, whether my father's business colleagues, friends of my siblings and myself, or some new soul who had landed in our town. You never knew who was coming to dinner. One of my sisters and I used to bemoan this during our college years. We'd want nothing more than to just go home for the holidays and eat a home-cooked meal in the comfort of our sweats while licking our post-final wounds, but nooooooo. No, instead we heard that *Helmut* and *Herta* had been transferred to town due to Helmut's business and had nowhere to go for Christmas dinner! Of course Mom and Dad would know that there was someone new in town and of course they'd be at our dinner. No sweats would be worn and interesting conversation would be wrangled from our tired souls.
Many invites circulated around my father's obsession with barbecuing... he had an awesome record of not missing a month of bbqing some form of meat for 35+ years (sometimes it was best not to know what the meat was...). He traveled a lot for his work, but still managed to make sure no trip was longer than 3 1/2 weeks so he could keep that record running. The grilling was done on his magnificent bbq pit that he built himself when they built the house. It's brick and has a roof and lights... and when it was first built, we'd find coins in it... it turns out the neighbors thought it was a wishing well. The bbq pit was made large enough to hold one large hog, which it did almost every year when my parents held their annual pig roast for 350+ of their closest friends. I loved those roasts, always held on a Sunday...loved waking up to the sound of the motor on the rotisserie... I probably also loved the fact that we wouldn't have to go to church, but that's another post...
Wedding receptions were held at this house, grandchildren were born and came to love this house. Crazy antics went on in this house, but that's another post... This house has been used and cared for and has held a lot of life (it still doesn't smell like an old person's house!) My parents, however, never ones to shy away from where life was taking them, or rather, where they were taking life, have decided it's time to move on.
Frankly, I think my mother wants to close this chapter of their lives with my father still present and for that, I can't blame her. They met in Kindergarten and have been together more or less ever since... that's approx. 75 years. In a few days, they'll celebrate their 58th wedding anniversary. I can see why my mother wants to close this chapter her own way. She's always done things her own way, why should this be any different.
In June, they'll be in a new house... one with no stairs, no multiple levels, elderly-friendly details, a small, easily maintained yard. Yes, I said new. When it became clear that no condos were opening up, my mother decided they needed to build and build something that would suit their elderly years even though my mother, at 80, is nowhere near what I would consider elderly. She's busy picking colors and lighting fixtures, she's even been planting planter boxes so they'll have flowers once they move in (I'm guessing she's already got the perennials ordered for the backyard...). Have I mentioned that not much gets between my mother and an idea??
My father, while not as *young* and energetic as my mother, is also embracing this move. It is their willingness to embrace a different stage, a different direction, that is making the thought of parting with this house a little easier... and yet, I'd be lying if I didn't say there are nights where I wake up and the knowledge that this place will no longer be mine, slips into my unguarded mind and I feel sick to my stomach. I've been away from *home* for a long time. I have my own home, but in the back of my mind, I knew I still had access. To not have that anymore will be... different.
And, when not thinking clearly, I also wonder... will the house miss us?? Will it wonder where its people went?? I just hope whomever moves in next... the second owner in 40-some years, will be kind to it and be open to all it has to offer... even offering up a meal if Helmut and Herta stop back through.
I know I'm lucky... I still have my parents and parents are more important than a house. I'm lucky in that I got to live in it, live in the same place for so long, even if sometimes going elsewhere seemed preferable. I've been lucky and I am lucky... and, it's just a house.
But it still feels like I'm losing someone.
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