I Love You. Good-bye.
When we set out to buy our own house, we received very good advice from a family member. It had only two points:
1) Don't fall in love with a house.
2) Follow advice # 1.
I knew right away that it would be a problem for me: not to fall in love at first sight. I was never good at that. I've always been one of those girls who could convince themselves to go on a second date after a very bad first one. My mind would gloss over the bad, while my heart would jump for joy over the good and undermine anything the mind had to say.
What actually happened totally contradicted my expectations. I hated every house we saw. The housing scene was beginning to look pretty grim.
We decided to keep on renting. And just as we did, we came upon The House. When I saw it, I understood exactly what the advice meant: do not fall in love with a house. It was too late - I was already in love. Big Time. The house spoke to me. It spoke my language. Better yet - it spoke my husband's language, too. We both felt kind of like back in the day, when we realized there was nothing left for us to do but to get married.
We found our home. There was nothing left for us to do but to buy it.
The only hurdle left was the presense of defects every house usually has - the baggage. We had to make sure "ours" didn't have more than a fair share. So we brought in the experts: family members (four of them) with experience and knowledge. Because, after all, we were just dilettantes.
The house did indeed need much work. But the verdict was - there was nothing majorly wrong with it. We got an "okay" to move forward.
My imagination ran rampant. I imagined pulling weeds in the garden, cleaning the cobwebs from the awnings, dusting the fireplace, letting kids play in the basement game room, blowing bubbles from the porch, wiping wood floors with a wet rag, walking down to the playground drowned in the woods of a lush green park.
House work - maintenance and repairs - always scared the daylights out of me. But this house managed to change me quickly: I wanted to do the work. I wanted us to make a home. We wanted it.
Last night, we went by the house one last time. It was unbelievably sad to say good-bye to what wasn't meant to be. The house felt like a dear friend who was moving far-far away. Thank you, house, for letting me taste the American dream, even if only in my imagination. For making me think that I can.
We will remember you, always.
1) Don't fall in love with a house.
2) Follow advice # 1.
I knew right away that it would be a problem for me: not to fall in love at first sight. I was never good at that. I've always been one of those girls who could convince themselves to go on a second date after a very bad first one. My mind would gloss over the bad, while my heart would jump for joy over the good and undermine anything the mind had to say.
What actually happened totally contradicted my expectations. I hated every house we saw. The housing scene was beginning to look pretty grim.
We decided to keep on renting. And just as we did, we came upon The House. When I saw it, I understood exactly what the advice meant: do not fall in love with a house. It was too late - I was already in love. Big Time. The house spoke to me. It spoke my language. Better yet - it spoke my husband's language, too. We both felt kind of like back in the day, when we realized there was nothing left for us to do but to get married.
We found our home. There was nothing left for us to do but to buy it.
The only hurdle left was the presense of defects every house usually has - the baggage. We had to make sure "ours" didn't have more than a fair share. So we brought in the experts: family members (four of them) with experience and knowledge. Because, after all, we were just dilettantes.
The house did indeed need much work. But the verdict was - there was nothing majorly wrong with it. We got an "okay" to move forward.
My imagination ran rampant. I imagined pulling weeds in the garden, cleaning the cobwebs from the awnings, dusting the fireplace, letting kids play in the basement game room, blowing bubbles from the porch, wiping wood floors with a wet rag, walking down to the playground drowned in the woods of a lush green park.
House work - maintenance and repairs - always scared the daylights out of me. But this house managed to change me quickly: I wanted to do the work. I wanted us to make a home. We wanted it.
Last night, we went by the house one last time. It was unbelievably sad to say good-bye to what wasn't meant to be. The house felt like a dear friend who was moving far-far away. Thank you, house, for letting me taste the American dream, even if only in my imagination. For making me think that I can.
We will remember you, always.