So is it strange that when I think of home, I also think of my old house in Wethersfield, CT? That's a picture of me at age five on our front stoop. It's also where I'm writing this morning, because my sister and I are meeting with a Realtor this week to discuss the sale of our parents' old place. If all goes well, we will have the house on the market in April, 50 years after my Mom and Dad bought it as newlyweds in 1967.
I haven't lived in this area for more than 16 years. After a few years in Florida, I moved to Virginia in January 2004 and that was that. But this little ranch house in the Hartford suburbs is where I grew up as the son of a carpenter and a secretary. It's where I learned right and wrong from my father. Where my mother taught me to cook and showed me how to ride a bike. Where I threw some kick-ass parties on the back deck that my Dad and I built in the summer of 1988.
I guess what I'm trying to say, as I'm sitting here going through old photographs and trinkets that I'll bring back to Virginia with me, is that I will always love this place and consider it my home. It just won't be mine any more, probably in a few short months. Maybe another young couple will buy it and start their own family here. I'd really like that. Maybe the next owners will rent it out or they'll only stay for a short while. It shouldn't matter to me, but it does.
Maybe this is part of the grieving process after losing my parents. The sentimental part of me wishes I could always keep this place. But the practical part of me know it's time to move on and close the book on a really rough stretch of my life.
I suppose the best part about all of this is that the sale of this home will make my current home even stronger. The money will go straight toward the kids' college funds and our retirement savings. I think that was Mom and Dad's plan all along, and I can't be any more grateful. They made a great home here. And I'm going to do the same for my family.
