Our New Old House

I’ve never lived in an established neighborhood before. The neighborhoods of my youth all began with dirt clods and lumber frames and families filling cul-de-sacs together. There’s a picture of myself at nearly two years old, standing on our brand-new front porch on the day we finally moved in. The beige vinyl siding had been painstakingly chosen by my mom. My dad stood with one hand on each of my brother and sister, the look of pride unmistakable behind his 80’s aviator glasses.

When my husband and I settled into our first home three years ago, it was very reminiscent of the home that I had grown up in—a young neighborhood filled with young families. From the back deck, you could smell the neighbor’s barbecues and hear kids protesting bedtimes.

But by events this summer that I can only call divinely orchestrated, my husband and I moved away from our first home in that familiar neighborhood and somehow miraculously landed in a home in the woods–my dream. It was off-market, older, and quirky in a town that I loved. My husband said he was going with me to see the house so that I could “get the idea out of my system.” I was near tears in the passenger seat, wondering how our life dreams could look so different. Had they always? But then we stood in the cold spring rain in the midst of an overgrown yard, and my husband turned to me and cleared his throat, “Well, it’s not an immediate no for me.”

From there, dominos fell in ways that I never could have guessed, and we are now mostly settled in a home we both say is our dream. Our forever home. Forever home is a strange thing to say–I’ve never before imagined myself somewhere for all of my days.

The house was lovingly custom-built in 1978. There’s a urinal in the primary closet. There are about three times the amount of light switches that any house could possibly need, most of which are almond-plated eyesores and nonfunctioning. There are eight different floor transitions on the first floor alone. Each one tells the story of a different remodel–different plans and dreams from the family who loved this house before us.

And that’s what has sat with me since we moved in–a family dreamed this house up, built it with all its quirks that were tailor-made for them, and then moved on. Their lives aged beyond their home. The birthday parties and fights and holidays and devastations that have been pages turned as this house bore silent witness. The wooded lot with its trees bowed low from children’s swings who have since left. It’s hard for me to think about it. The brevity of it all. This tick in time, barely a pause between second hands when my babies are barefoot and home in the mornings. And this house stands here for us, with its cedar siding taking layer upon layer of paint as the decades roll by.

God willing, we will age here, too. Our babies will leave and come back and visit us here–slightly washed out by age. Maybe stooped-shouldered with grayed hair and papery skin, we’ll be gardening and cooking in this house filled with our memories. A house we will leave one day too soon and see a younger version of ourselves scooping up babies and smiling on front porches with a sold sign.