Monday, May 7, 2012

And Now It's Here

So even though I’ve been talking about it for years, I think I was in total denial that I would really have to sell the house and move.

But, at last, the time has come.

If all goes well, by tomorrow I will have a firm offer…and there will be no turning back.

I suppose that when the only way you have to go is forward, there’s at least a certainty of direction.

And scariness.

And moments when you feel you are hyperventilating. 

And racing thoughts, and very little calmness, and hours of laying in bed, looking up at the ceiling, and wondering if the decisions you are making are the right ones. (And in my case, needing to feel as though the decisions are right not only for me, but to ensure that Dad will continue to be cared for and that I will have been a wise steward with his assets.)

Big decisions. Grown up decision. (You see, I was never a Wendy Darling…I was always a Peter Pan. Never, ever wanted to grow up. Unfortunately, you rarely have a say in that. It just happens.)

So now pictures of my living room and bathrooms and bedrooms are on display on the internet for all and sundry to peruse.

I should be grateful. The house had only been listed for about 24 hours and already there was an offer. But before I found out about this, I had gone home knowing that there had been people in the house, looking it over. It was a very unsettling feeling…I didn’t like to think of people wandering through the rooms - poking through closets, openings drawers and cupboards - JUDGING me (the house, yes – but ME, too). So I decided to walk through, as though I were looking at it as a prospective buyer.

It actually depressed me. There are so many things that I would change (improve), if only I had the money. Cosmetic things like replacing vinyl flooring, or all new blinds in the windows, or repainting the kitchen cabinets, or pouring a new (uncracked) driveway. 

For years I’ve wanted to turn the concrete slab to the west (that had once been the parking spot for Dad’s pickup) into a covered patio, with a lovely trellised gate and stepping stones and a picnic table…but again, if only there had been money.

I go around now, looking into rooms, stepping outside into the backyard to look up at the stars and the moon…and realizing that very soon I will be gone and those rooms will be empty – and then quickly filled with someone else’s furniture, someone else’s STUFF and someone else will be looking at the mountains shining in the moonlight from under the apple tree, or curled up with a book in front of the fireplace on a snowy afternoon. And my throat tightens and my vision blurs…because despite the worry about maintenance problems, and the fact that it IS a very large house for a single lady…and there are SO many stairs (and invariably wherever you are in the house, the thing you want is as far away from you as is physically possible) this is home. And has been for almost twenty years. It’s the longest I’ve ever lived anywhere. It was the last home my mother lived in…and my father, come to think of it. 

So many things happened here. 

And leaving will close a chapter of my life forever.


  1. Oh, Jans, it IS sad. I know. I've gone through it more than once. But think of the adventures that await on the horizon! God cherishes your memories as much, if not more, than you do and He has a plan for your future - on that you can rest assured.

  2. I understand the melancholy feelings, Jans. I went through it last year when I sold the house in Elmira. Also, the house I had lived in the longest. The house where my babies grew up. All those Christmases and birthdays and neighbourhood get-togethers, and visits by dear sisters from all over North America.

    Thinking of how little the kids were when I first bought it and they ran around the empty house picking their rooms. It was a brand new house. No one else had ever called it home.

    Now I had to relinquish it to another family with little children to play and have their own Christmases and holidays and birthdays.

    "Memories so thick", as James Earl Jones said, you have to "brush them away" from your face.

    I understand perfectly and am giving you such big hugs right now, dear friend.