Looking at Our House

We were in the neighborhood having visited Dad's parents after lunch and then stopped quickly to grab & give a hug to dad's brother and our cousin.

"Hey Dad, go past the house."
"Okay, but nobody get weird or anything."
"We've got to stop and see them [the neighbors]. They've got to be home. Let's surprise them!" said Mum.

It was a lovely, lovely visit. Our families hadn't seen each other since the tearful night before and actual November moving day.  Just to talk and laugh, we always do! To be someplace completely familiar, in a house that I've been familiar with since I could walk and even before, to be with people who were so much like family and always right next door. The words sweet and precious come to mind. We actually opened our Christmas presents... Many dates had been set to get together, but it hadn't happened. There we were today and there the presents had been for months. Theirs are still in our dining room. 

This is the point of the story where a slight correction is needed. The post title should read: Looking at what was our house... felt really, really odd. Mum & Dad admitted the same. We'd driven past at Thanksgiving then Christmas and seen it barren of decorations, but today was different. We were outside of the car, walking around, up to our neighbors house. Everything seemed more personal. I had an urge several times to just go over, run in the yard, swing open the shed or walk up the front steps. I even wanted to go up to the door, ring the bell and just say, "I used to live here. Yay! How do you like it? 'cause I loved it completely." My parents joked the reply would be, "And...so...what?"

I wanted to do what I'd done everyday since I was born; but I didn't. I couldn't. None of it was mine anymore. In fact, some of it was even gone. Our hand prints and names were all in the cement holding down the blue, green and white striped swing set. They had taken it down- no kids. The red chinese maple with our names carved in it was huge. I used to sit under that tree for hours, talking to myself, dreaming and playing with rocks, flowers, grass, sticks, reading books. One of my dad's business signs was hidden under the lattice of the steps. I wonder why he left it... 

I wonder if they noticed any of the things we left behind: the writing in the crawl spaces, did they read the gospel verse?! The above mentioned hand-prints and carvings, the windows cut into the side of the shed from when it was our playhouse, the height markings on the basement closet doorway, the footprints pressed in the garage floor. The footprints weren't ours, but we always liked them. I know the holes from our homemade basketball hoop have to still be in the brick of the house on the deck... but they'll never see them. Of course, who would? Yet, I know they're there. That house has us all over it. My dad did so much work... and it was all beautiful. I'm not sure if I appreciated or saw it before, maybe. I know I did today.

There was a plastic duck on the porch. A plastic duck... oh my. Plastic ducks (you know, the kind that can be dressed for any and all seasons) aren't, well, I just never imagined a plastic duck sitting on that front porch. I know, they're kitsch... but not in a good way for me. They're not bad, just make me wince then laugh. Kevin thought of all kinds of funny things they could have done to the inside, and some not so funny things actually. I laughed at them all when he was talking though.

Hopefully the members of the family who owned the house we bought will drive by. But I want them to come in, say hello, to say as I wanted to say this afternoon, "I lived here. I loved this house. It meant something to me and was part of my life. Here's why..." To play a record on the turntable even! A house is just a house; but still, some houses are homes. This is now our home, but it was someone else's too. That seems to mean something in my mind. It just doesn't seem right not to know who lived here and what these rooms meant to them; or for the people with the plastic duck not to know who we were/are. It could be that I'm asking for too much information and I really don't want to know all that... possibly.

Moving is something I'll remember as a part of the transition from being a kid to a young adult/teenager. I feel like today was a "growing up" day. I couldn't change the fact that the old house now belonged to someone else*, someone I don't know, or that they most likely would never know about me, my family or the consequential moments for us at that very address. The moments remain; the location has changed. Reality wasn't harsh but was firm, kinda stark, yet sprinkled with joy. 

It's life.

As I wrote on the rafters:

The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord." -Job 1:21

& guess what - the Lord gave again and continues to give. 

*The flip-side is that we now have a wonderful new house which is appreciated and loved!