Home is...

Home is…

I have lived in several places in my time, mostly on the east coast, aside from a brief, insane period in the 70’s, and mostly on Long Island, aside from a brief, insane period in VA.  Of the three homes I’ve lived in on Long Island, two were “home” quickly. The one I was born in, and the one I married into in the 80’s.
I moved back into the house I was born in in 2009. July.  Circumstances demanded it and my mom was getting too old to be wandering around a 5 bedroom house alone.  I think it was after the call I got in VA when she oh so casually mentioned that she hit a boulder, a lawn boulder, with her car. Between that and the third or fourth random fall from tripping over nothing, it was time.  So I went home, to the house I grew up in, the house that my father, quite literally, built.  That house was full again, with me, my girls, and a couple of grandkids.  And Luna.
Living in that house,  I was flooded with memories, both good and bad. It was so different, yet so much the same. The fireplace where we used to run in from the winter cold and stand in front of to warm up, the cold air in the front hall closet from the attic trap door, the cellar stairwell, where we used to write our names in shoe polish, back when shoes were actually polished, the cool of the back hall, due to there being no basement below it, only crawl space. The kitchen window that looked out on the back yard, how I can still see my mother leaning on the sink, watching the birds. Both of my girls spent literally years of their lives there.  Oh if those walls could talk.  I didn’t do a whole lot to the house after my mom passed, minor furniture changes, ripped up some carpet, small things. But it was always home.  Inevitably it became too much for me, too much room, too much taxes, just too much. It was time to put it on the market.   

Suddenly  I became a master procrastinator, I admit it. The thought of going through and packing about 4 generations of….stuff…was beyond daunting. We had three rooms stacked with moving boxes. I had so many mixed feelings about the move. Selling the house I grew up in that my father built, having to get rid of….the past, moving in general, starting somewhere new, at my age. My heart broke just a little bit the day we left that empty house, with its many ghosts of the past. I thought that I would never have a home that would really be “home” again. I didn’t even realize that I felt that way until recently. We found this fabulous little house  by some stroke of luck. It was perfect. 3 bedrooms, two baths, well one and a half. Full basement, the best kitchen ever, a sunroom with skylight, another skylight on the landing upstairs. And the closet. A WALK THRU CLOSET. WITH SHELVES BEHIND THE CLOTHES BAR.  AND A SHOE RACK.  If you know me…you know.  The closet in what would be my office?  THE WIDTH OF THE ROOM WITH SHELVES AT EITHER END.  And the claw foot bathtub!  And then there’s the barn. Katie thought she might get a cow. I strongly discouraged it. It’s not that kind of barn.
However, it does have a loft. But we did fence in the yard for the dogs.  And the deck.  I love this house.  Did I mention that it was built in 1898? And that it’s on the river? Or the fact that…it’s right around the corner from where we used to live?  Which is really odd, but at least we were familiar with the area.

So we moved and found ourselves in a whole new old house. We moved our furniture and our things in. And started living here.  I had my work from home office set up upstairs, Katie had the downstairs bedroom.  And life went on.  It’s funny when you move, especially if it’s into someone else’s house. 

There’s almost sort of a guilt over changing anything.  It takes a minute for it to sink in….this is MY house, MY home.  The moment came for me just recently. We have made a few changes. Le Fiance has his office down stairs, since Josh stole Katie away and the room was empty.

And I say that with the utmost love and affection.  We rearranged the kitchen some and had an empty corner, which Ikea gladly filled with a workspace for le baker (that’s me).  We made some changed in the living room, threw down a rug (which Ikea also provided), and we’re discussing paint colors.  The moment came when Katie said….”I’m glad you’re finally making it your home”

And I realized…yea, I am.  I’m not just living in this house. I’m thriving in this home.  I’m happy. I may never tire of looking out my office window at the river.

I may never get used to looking up from my computer and seeing the deer at the edge of the woods across the street.  I’m moving on from all the skeletons,

I’ve learned to dance with them. I’ve learned that life is short and I don’t want to miss any of it.  I know that I’m moving towards something. I’m not sure what it is yet, but whatever it is, it will be worth the journey. I’ve realized that I’m not in this alone. For the original Miss Independence, that’s big.  But it’s nice, really nice, just to lean every now and then.  In this home that we’re making.  I don’t take any of it for granted. I’ve come a long way from the person I used to be years ago. I’ve learned a whole lot. I’ve loved, I’ve lost, I’ve loved again. I’ve survived raising two children of the female persuasion, as a single mother, and God knows that’s an accomplishment.  I’ve had happy times, and dreadfully almost disabling sad times. But I’m still here.  And if THESE walls could talk….let’s just be grateful they can’t, shall we?