This Old House- Part One

Our home sold. SOLD. Like, someone else is going to come live here, move their own furniture in and bring their own smells. I always imagined this ending poetically. That some young married couple, the wife pregnant with their first child, would come wandering in our home and know instantly that this was their new home. Just like we did.

 A young couple who would live here for several years and bring a few babies home.

They would fall in love with the big tree in the backyard and attach their own swings to its arms. They would sit under it thousands of times and look up at how the leaves and branches contrasted with the blue, clouded sky. Maybe one night they would notice little owls in it! They too would have the spring-fresh green seeds cover their picnic blanket and hair. They too would cool off in the summer shade under its village of leaves. And in the fall they'd watch as the tree dripped with honey and rained down gold.

They would dig in the dirt, curse the weeds, rake the leaves, pick the peaches, and give up on the garden. Their kids would decorate any open space of cement with thick, colorful drawings of dusty sidewalk chalk.

They would appreciate the way the winter sunrise painted their kitchen purple and orange and how the summer sun sang its last lullabies in their backyard. They would obsess over the rainbows of light squeezing through the prism front door window, dazzling the carpet. They would love the spring morning light and the way it illuminated the pink blossoming tree in the front yard.

Maybe they too would experience a deep loss of life and then plant little purple flowers that fall, to bloom every spring, to remember the life that never was.

Obviously they would know where the biggest pot holes are on their street and to avoid them at all times -except after it rains. They would love the old house on the corner and the way it gets completely buried in yellow and orange leaves every autumn. And the Halloween decorations three houses down. And the Christmas lights on the big white porch on that house by the library. They would notice that strange house that's built under ground, but it would take them a few years. They'd love the idea of baseball games going on across the street but then really be annoyed at all the cars parked on the street for it. But they would find a certain comfort in the high squeal of the swings from the park, back and forth, back and forth- A song reserved for warm days. They'd also probably notice all the long bony shadows that stretch across the street from the trees and onto their little home. And just maybe they'd cry too when another tree from the park gets cut down.

They'd be thrilled to discover a carnival around the block once every summer. And an antique car show at the park right across the street that same week! And a parade that they could walk to. Perhaps they would swear to make that diner on main street "their place" but then only go there twice.

One of their favorite perks would be their neighbor, Glade, a humble, quiet elderly man who has the largest garden in Utah and kindly shares his abundance all summer and fall. Cucumbers, zucchinis, apples, tomatoes, squash, and peppers! They'd gladly accept these gifts, as their own garden was being overcome by tall weeds. But then they'd repay him with peaches from the tree that grows strong on its own in their yard. And maybe one day they'd have a little girl who grew up a bit and would spend her summer days barging into Glade's yard as he worked on his garden, chattering on about her day and her thoughts on dolls, bees, and swimming. 

They would love this little home.

 In the living room they'd have some of their most important conversations, spend many sick days, wrestle kids on the carpet, stuff a bookcase full of books and nick-knacks, spend tiring nights binge watching shows,  cram guests on the couches and chairs around the small walls, do some yoga, sit by the fire for hours on cold winter days, and spill a lot of pop corn.

They'd spend most of their time in the kitchen- dinner around the table, cleaning dinner up off the floor, spontaneous dance parties next to the sink and stove, telling jokes, blocking cabinets and getting the way of each other, wrestling kids off the table and counter tops, burning dinner, shoeing kids away from snacks, eating ice cream, making late night cravings by the light of the stove, roasting the occasional marshmallow on the small gas flame, hang crepe paper and balloons for hundreds of birthdays and parties and mostly- they'd be doing dishes and dishes and dishes and more dishes.

In the first bedroom they'd read lots of little books, clean up toys every day, dig in the dress up box, find missing socks, put dolls to sleep, sing lullabies, say prayers, wrestle kids to bed, rock in the chair, nurse babies, pray and sing some more, change diapers, change underwear, put together puzzles, and punch the ceiling on an extra frustrating night of bed time refusals.

I couldn't say too much about the second bedroom without getting awkward and inappropriate but you know, it would be a sacred space. A sacred space that would not only be where the babies got made but where the babies would first sleep, where the babies would spend countless hours being suckled and swayed and swaddled. In this room they would also wrestle older kids off their bed, lay awake some nights thinking of things, open the windows and let in the nighttime summer breeze, and have some of the most intimate conversations with god and each other.

And lastly, the little bathroom. The TINY bathroom. There are more memories to be made in a small bathroom than you may think. But they would have countless memories made of nearly dying by getting squashed between the open door and small sink counter. They'd hide on the toilet from children, clean gallons of bath water from the floor, fight for sink time, find strange things such as sticks, bugs, and rocks taking a bath in the sink, clean marker off the toilet seat, fish toys out of the toilet water, and yet find refugee in the deep set tub on late nights while soaking in a bath swirling with lavender and salts.

They were going to try out a variety of pets in the home. An escape artist tortoise, a cricket eating dragon, a couple opinionated cats, and a dofus dog. They'd painfully learn that they are best off with the cats.

They were going to do ALL of this, and more. They were going to love this house and feel like it's a family member too. They were going to build a porch, install new floors, put in sprinklers, paint the cabinets, plant flowers, shampoo the carpets, and add a small hot tub. And then one day they were going to out grow it, sell it, and move on, and cry their faces off at the final good bye.

Right?

Maybe... Except... I actually have no idea what their memories are going to look like in this house. How could it be anything but what we've gone through?! Will it be as special? Will it mean anything? Will it be a poetic never ending cycle of repeated memories?

Yet God is a poet beyond my comprehension. All my worries and hopes and fears.... do you know what He had planned? He sent us, after making us wait for the right moment, a young couple who are actually related to the original family who built this house and then lived in it for decades, passing it down through the family until more recently it got passed off to random people and eventually lead to us. But now it's going back into this family and they are excited to keep it that way.

And I guess, no matter who moved in next, it was going to be different. Who even knows the stories these walls could tell from the decades before us, and now the stories go on and build upon each other, much like these little red bricks. This house has been so good to us, and I think we've been pretty good to it. But it's time to go.

And we move on. This time of life will never be again, we will leave these walls and never see them again. These years of bringing home babies and learning how to be a new family are ending. Somehow, we keep growing older. Time never does stop, as much as we wish it to. And before you know it, Buck and I will be an elderly couple that is looking to downsize and walks into a little home for the final chapter of our life together. Beginnings and endings, this old house has seen it all. And I'm forever grateful that it's held tight some of the most important, tender years of our lives.

As I wrote this, and cried, Hazel came over to me and asked a simple question after looking through a book, "Mom, does a butterfly go back into its cocoon?"

"No Hazel, a butterfly does not go back to its cocoon. It comes out with wings and flies away."

And so we leave this cocoon-home of ours, of the first years of our marriage, the first years making our family. I can't say that we're actually flying yet but we are different now than when we first walked in that front door. We close this chapter, we keep moving forward. 

But I think I'll keep coming back to re-read this chapter for the rest of my butterfly days.

Good bye, old home.