It was time to move. It was time to stop. I had lived in
this house for over 36 years. It was not the house I moved into back then. It
had acquired a new roof, new windows, siding, a deck , a split entrance and a
very expensive septic system. It was, is, what one visitor called, nestled into
the hillside. There had been two long
marriages, and the raising upright, of four wonderful children. But I am the
keeper of this house now, with it's memories, reminiscences and several
histories.
It has
been a place of companionship, struggle, reward and progress. It is a place
where it's occupants have been closer inside than on the outside of it. There has been love and indifference,
kindness and unconcern, sharing and possessiveness, appreciation and
forgiveness. It has been a place where healing and headway have been made in
both head and heart.
It has been both house and home. It has been a village,
one that has been taken to raise a child, a family and a marriage. It has been a city, often crowded, but lively
and exploratory. It has been a continent where it's occupants have expressed
diverse and assorted opinion, values, character and love. It has been my world
for 36 years.
It has been a fortress, keeping us all safe over the
years, and a field of dreams, where each of us as it's inhabitants have forged
our futures and planned our progress. My
four children have spread their wings from this nest, and flown into the world,
hopefully to improve it, and to take it's values and it's meanings into the
world and into their own lives.
As a small cape, my American friends and family thought it
a little small; my very British parents thought it huge. For both it was large
enough to come and be welcomed with love and appreciation and small enough to
feel it's embrace coming through the door. My father, with his small 20 X 20
square feet of London backyard, thought my half acre was a gardeners dream. At
times, I prayed that the grass and shrubbery would stop growing, not for ever,
just enough for me to rest up for a week or so!
When this house received a new roof, my essay on introducing my children
to rooftop views of the neighborhood, was published by this newspaper; I
remember with delight the 50 percent reduction in my heating bills after installing
of new windows; and the joy of discovery real oak flooring under the carpet.
A house can be like a novel or a good movie. Standing in
each room, I can recall scenes and scripts of drama, of triumph and tragedy. In
this room my children were born; in this one, I wrote essay after essay,
letters, family history and my autobiography. In another I hear laughter and
tears; argument and agreement, of greeting and parting.
But it's time to move, and it's time to stop adding to the
collection of memories and reminiscences that have filled it's rooms and spaces
with joy, tears and absences.
