On Monday, a sign will be pounded into the grass of our small front yard declaring with obvious obnoxious print that it’s is indeed FOR SALE. And I don’t like it, not one bit.
I’ve moved once, at the age of four, from one small house in my quiet quaint town to another larger house in the same Midwest town. And frankly, at the age of four it doesn’t phase you much.
But now, now it’s a different story. I’ve resided in this 134 year old farm house, where my great Grandma once lived, for fourteen years. It has become a part of me. The creaky stairs, the worn hardwood floors, the chipped walls, the old fashioned glass door handles, the 1810 bolded black on the front of the house, the ancient drafty windows, the scurrying of mice in the walls.
No, it doesn’t sound ideal, but it has history. The only house around with a dirt road to get to the main part of town. To just a house surrounded by other houses. To the same house, watching houses around it get work done while it stands strong not needing a face lift because each year adds character.
This home has provided me comfort for the times I need to be alone. It’s provided me warmth in the brutal Michigan winters and air in the blazing summers.
The memories created in this 5 bedroom, 3 baths, rickety home with my three older siblings and parents will never be lost or forgotten. As the house sells and we pack our copious belongings, the memories will be packed too.
I’ll be sad to say goodbye to this building I call home, but I wish that a lovely family finds it just as ruggedly beautiful as we do.