I sold my house this week. It's been a somewhat drawn out process, as neither the buyers (my neighbors) nor the seller (myself) has been particularly motivated for a quick closing; it just had to happen before the end of the year, per some tax law or another. Which has given me a long time to contemplate and experience what it means to say goodbye to this particular house.
I have lived in this house for nearly fifteen years, having signed the papers (as buyer, rather than seller) the day before Thanksgiving in November 2000. It was only the second house I'd ever looked at with the intention of buying a home, and it was love at first sight. It's an older house, by Alaska standards, having been built in 1952, which was seven years before Alaska was even legally one of the United States. But it felt (and still feels) "solid." The floors don't creak, and it's .. well, it's just a sturdy little thing, which is, I guess, how it managed to withstand the 9.2 magnitude Good Friday earthquake of 1964.
I think I first fell in love with the stairs. The wood is some sort of exotic hardwood shipbuilders used to construct the main masts of old sailing ships.
Or maybe the first thing I really noticed was the light. It's September now, which is the same month I first toured this house, and autumn's bright sunlight just pours through the south facing windows, dodging the foliage of the birch & poplar in the front yard, casting sun-dappled shadows in the main sitting room.
The way the light moves through the rooms, no matter the season, is still one of my favorite things about this house: starting in the early morning as the sun casts long shadows through the hallway, then around to the front of the house and its sitting room later in the day, finally setting in the west with the last few rays letting me know it's time to light a fire in the wood stove as night falls. Of course, in summer, the light wraps all the way around to the north-facing kitchen, contributing to Alaska's otherworldly experience of the never-ending Alaskan summer day.
But it's time for me to move on from this place, for a variety of reasons. The biggest is my divorce. I bought this house with the man who would later become my husband and partner of sixteen years, and then, last year, my ex-husband, in an exit I had not foreseen. We did not build this house, but we worked hard to sculpt it to suit our own individual tastes in the time we were here together:
The backyard fence, designed to maximize the visible greenery (all our neighbors' yards) but not the people (none of the neighbors' houses... or neighbors).
Even a smaller fence to surround the raspberry patch:
The tea nook, with a hot-water dispenser to keep the warm beverages instantly replenished any time of day or night.
The kitchen remodel itself, doubling the kitchen's size to make it large enough to facilitate cooking a dinner for friends or hosting a tapas-style wine party on those chilly winter nights. We built the banquette in the corner, the wainscoting-wrapped breakfast bar, ....
And so, the memories here are inextricably intertwined with my .... my what? My marriage? My divorce? My husband? My ex-husband? ... I'm still sorting all that out. But, as much as love this house, I don't think I can "sort it out" within these walls any longer.
Of course, there are other reasons, as well. The city bike trail that abuts my front yard has more and more traffic lately, as does the nearby cross-street, which has expanded lane by lane over the years and is now five lanes wide, not seventy feet from where I'm sitting. And so, in spite of the lateness of this weekday hour, I can hear the sound of tires on asphalt and revving motors (speed limit is 45mph) in between the peaceful lulls I prefer, the sound of the wind soughing through the branches of the poplar outside my window, the poplar I have been asked each and every year I've lived here to chop down, by my neighbors who insist (erroneously) that it drops bugs on their gooseberry plants (in spite of us showing them a photo of a gooseberry worm, which is what they have... but I digress).
And so I wade through these memories, one by one, as I prepare to say my goodbyes to this house, which has been such a comforting home to me, even in the worst of times. The loss of both of my parents. Three of my dogs were euthanized in this house. My marriage was born, lived, and died here.
And so, because there is no formal funeral for a house, I will eulogize it here, by sharing just a few more memories, as I page through the photos...
This birch was just a tiny little thing, barely seven or eight feet high when I moved in, because the moose kept climbing over the fence and eating it. Now that the fence is moose-proof, it's enormous.
Every spring, I watch the chickadees decide if this nest box is up to snuff. Most years, it is, and I'm serenaded on summer days by the peep-peep-peeping of hungry chicks from within the box.
The Harry Potter back porch light:
The Purple Room -- walls painted purple to lend air of theater to the TV room:
This is a weird one, maybe. When upgrading the old windows to something more energy-efficient, we decided maximize our CQ (Cuteness Quotient) and include muntins (it's a word, not kidding) -- and not those little fake plastic pieces that make it LOOK like wooden dividers, either, but actual muntins (what can I say? I learned a new word). These windows have meaning partly because I do really like them and appreciate that the dividers are genuine wood. But more heartrending, putting up this particular window was one of the last times we saw our late friend, Greg, before he passed away. He was always so helpful -- such a nice guy, tragic loss....
More tree stuff. This is a choke cherry tree. I always loved these trees, with their copper bark and cute little berries and white flowers... Always wanted one.... It's crushing to think the new owners could chop this poor little tree down if they don't want it. It's only been in the ground three years....
Oh, the fabulous winter of 2011-12 -- boatloads of snow. The house always felt especially cozy and welcoming coming home on those cold winter days.
The Halloween parties -- Man, they were pretty wild. Clearing out the bedroom and papering the walls to turn it into a makeshift blacklight/neon paint room for the night was just too much fun. Yes, genitalia were represented, more years than not.
Friends and family who visited. This one is my sister, Vernal, who really doesn't enjoy traveling, so her visit was especially meaningful.
In reading this over, it's fairly self-indulgent -- sorry. This stuff probably doesn't have any meaning for any of you, maybe some of the Halloween party stuff....
But that's sort of the point. After I turn the key in the door, and this becomes the buyers' house, they can do whatever they want with it: knock down walls, carpet the whole place in orange shag, cut down all the trees and rip out the fences it took so long to put in.... That's their right. It's just a house to them.
But to me it's something else. It's a collection of all of these memories and so many more -- fifteen years' worth. I can walk these floors in pitch-black darkness without stubbing a toe, knowing how many steps from the bed to the bathroom without turning on a light. I take two steps sideways from the stove and know just where to reach in the fridge to grab the milk, because I've done it thousands of times. All that muscle memory.
In my less maudlin moments, I can embrace the future of new experiences that await me in a new home. My next place is up in the mountains, so no traffic noise (still going on even as the hour grows late on this weekday night). And I have a better chance of seeing the Northern Lights up there without all the city lights interfering. I won't have to worry about homeless guys rummaging through my unlocked car in the middle of the night. -- And it's a new adventure, right? What's bad about that?
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| New Digs |
However. This house has never let me down. It has been shelter and comfort and safety for me. It has been the "castle" I return to at the end of a harried workday, to find my favorite tea in the cupboard and that familiar ticking the furnace makes just behind the pantry door and that little smudge on the fifth stair riser that won't come off no matter how hard I scrub (and I'm too lazy to repaint). The railing hardware shaped like tiny dragon heads (though you'd never know if you didn't look). The way the sliding door sticks unless you lift up a bit just at the right moment. -- All these tiny inconsequential things. And so many more.
I'll miss you, House. You've been very good to me.
