you can't go home again and again and again and again and...
So my parents are officially moving here, to Lexington, this summer. ‘Officially’ being contingent on selling their house and 1.6 acres this spring- not that I imagine they’ll have a problem doing so, it being 15 minutes from Microsoft. Or that it will sell for something less than what can set them up here, being as they bought it in 1983 for around $70k.
Partly they have to move, due to the absurd, monthly property taxes they pay on their place, taxes prohibitive on a teacher’s retirement. The other part is that none of us live anywhere around there, and now that they’ve got a grandchild they have even more incentive to be close.
Mixed emotions, to be sure. They’re hardly old, flashing AARP cards or taking up golf or bridge- they’re not yet even 60. The relational capital they’ve created, at church and in the community, can’t simply be transferred to another locale. And I don’t think my mom, in particular, understands just how much she’ll miss the mountains. (For starters.)
But my sisters and I grew up seeing our grandparents once or twice a year, growing increasingly alienated and indifferent to most of our extended family, and I don’t want that for Sam. I love my parents, counting them friends long before I ever needed to move away. I want Sam to know them, and I want them to know the joy of being grandparents. It will be good for them to be close; the benefits I can imagine far outweigh any difficulties I can anticipate.
But I don’t know how to feel about this for me, the me that grew up there and still counts it as the only place I’ll ever call home. I love Seattle, even as I can’t imagine the (real) circumstances under which it would be feasible for me to live there again. I love the climate, the weather, the food, the amenities. Most of all, I love the people who’ll still be there when my parents have left.
So do I still get to visit regularly (if once a year can be called ‘regular’)? Who do I stay with, and how do I get around? Do Hannah & Sam always accompany me? I haven’t sorted it all out.
The morning after we flew in, we took Sam to church. We scarcely stepped into the foyer before running a gauntlet of people who’ve known me and my parents for decades. And there too were Dwight & Lynette & Pascal, who woke early and stopped on their way to Canada just to see us.
It could be merely the reunion of friends rarely seen, and maybe the swelling of the season (Hannah described it as my “Christmas cry”), but as I sat in the sanctuary with my family and held my son over my shoulder so that Lynette could better see him, I was overcome. I forget how much I miss these friends, how much I lose by living apart from them. They hardly know my wife, and they may never know my children.
Am I mistaken, does so very little of my life here move me in this way? The thought surprised me; I don’t spend time lamenting it. I no longer have the expectation that, beyond my family, my relational life be deeply rewarding; I had that time, I forged those bonds and this place has another purpose. Loyalty, camaraderie and shared interests seem to be enough. And still I’ve been spoiled with the friends here I do count dear.
Partly they have to move, due to the absurd, monthly property taxes they pay on their place, taxes prohibitive on a teacher’s retirement. The other part is that none of us live anywhere around there, and now that they’ve got a grandchild they have even more incentive to be close.
Mixed emotions, to be sure. They’re hardly old, flashing AARP cards or taking up golf or bridge- they’re not yet even 60. The relational capital they’ve created, at church and in the community, can’t simply be transferred to another locale. And I don’t think my mom, in particular, understands just how much she’ll miss the mountains. (For starters.)
But my sisters and I grew up seeing our grandparents once or twice a year, growing increasingly alienated and indifferent to most of our extended family, and I don’t want that for Sam. I love my parents, counting them friends long before I ever needed to move away. I want Sam to know them, and I want them to know the joy of being grandparents. It will be good for them to be close; the benefits I can imagine far outweigh any difficulties I can anticipate.
But I don’t know how to feel about this for me, the me that grew up there and still counts it as the only place I’ll ever call home. I love Seattle, even as I can’t imagine the (real) circumstances under which it would be feasible for me to live there again. I love the climate, the weather, the food, the amenities. Most of all, I love the people who’ll still be there when my parents have left.
So do I still get to visit regularly (if once a year can be called ‘regular’)? Who do I stay with, and how do I get around? Do Hannah & Sam always accompany me? I haven’t sorted it all out.
The morning after we flew in, we took Sam to church. We scarcely stepped into the foyer before running a gauntlet of people who’ve known me and my parents for decades. And there too were Dwight & Lynette & Pascal, who woke early and stopped on their way to Canada just to see us.
It could be merely the reunion of friends rarely seen, and maybe the swelling of the season (Hannah described it as my “Christmas cry”), but as I sat in the sanctuary with my family and held my son over my shoulder so that Lynette could better see him, I was overcome. I forget how much I miss these friends, how much I lose by living apart from them. They hardly know my wife, and they may never know my children.
Am I mistaken, does so very little of my life here move me in this way? The thought surprised me; I don’t spend time lamenting it. I no longer have the expectation that, beyond my family, my relational life be deeply rewarding; I had that time, I forged those bonds and this place has another purpose. Loyalty, camaraderie and shared interests seem to be enough. And still I’ve been spoiled with the friends here I do count dear.