We have owned
three houses.
The first
was the house of high expectations and a low budget. The bathroom mocked us with its 1970’s tile
and fixtures. The front door was so
close to the street that random strangers routinely knocked asking for directions
to the halfway house. Oh, did we not
mention the house was a block away from the local drug rehab center?
But the
stove! The stove sang to us, the stove
made up ballads about mushroom stuffed chicken and baked brie and macadamia nut
cookies. The vintage O’Keefe & Merritt
stove promised us we’d morph into Martha Stewart clones immediately if not
sooner.
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| photo by MOV |
Then Tim accepted a cross-country job transfer.
The second
house was tall and imposing, like my father-in-law who now lived a mere 30
minutes away. The house was a regal and
stately brick Colonial that practically demanded we salute upon exiting the
car.
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| photo by MOV |
The outdated kitchen laughed at our
feeble attempts to replicate the culinary masterpieces of the previous
house. “Who are you kidding?” asked
House. “You have a baby now and another
on the way. Buy some more Cheerios and
call it a day.”
We moved to
the last house when the boys neared elementary age. We had heard of one particular school
district with stellar reviews, and that is where we wanted our precious sons to
go. The new area of town required money,
however, and lots of it.
We moved
into a tiny tear-down, a tear-down we could not afford to tear down. The house hugged us and said, “Even though I
have mold, bad plumbing, and no air conditioning, I know you will love me.” Then this house raped our bank account.
But this
house gave us a yard, a yard with room for a garden, now overflowing with
cucumbers, radishes, and watermelons.
Our sons run wild in the backyard, while we watch them from the window
while washing dishes by hand. We lack a
dishwasher, but we have an extraordinary life.
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| photo by MOV |
MOV
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