The word “home” carries with it such comforting connotations. After a hard days work, I just want to go “home.” After a long and adventurous vacation, I just want to get “home” to my own bed. When I sleep at night, in my crazy dreams starring my wife and family, friends, and the occasional special guest star (Alan Alda has appeared more often than any other) and myself, I dream of “home.” While I lived in the Dominican Republic my waking and sleeping thoughts often led me to my “home” with my father, brothers, and sister.
Oddly enough, the “home” that I see doesn’t reflect my current living situation. Even though I love my house, my wife, my cat, my birds, and my brothers, I dream (as in asleep and dreaming) of another home. I dream of a home in a quiet neighborhood with a drive-in theatre at the top of the street. I reminisce about the big tree in the backyard where I could climb up high and escape the world below. I see the home with a dog in the backyard, and many lost Star Wars action figures under the big bush in the front yard. I dream of the home where I grew up in Lakewood, Colorado.
More than ever I find myself daydreaming over this home. It wasn’t just a three bedroom, one bathroom house that six kids and my dad occupied. This structure served as a person factory: a place that manufactured six responsible, mature, adults…okay maybe two or three, but a 50% success rate is pretty high in the research and development field.
My Dad started the mortgage on his house back in 1968. Real estate back then showed a different face than it does today. Though his monthly rates varied, they never topped over $100. As our family grew from four, to five, to six, to seven, and eventually to eight people, we learned to make do with the limited space. Two bunk beds sat in one bedroom, and two beds in the other (Anna’s room). The brother who slept in the room with the baby (Anna) was the brother who had to get up the earliest. I had a paper route for a couple of years, so I occupied that bed for a while.
When my Dad and Mom split, all six of us stayed with Dad. Mom told us that Dad was crazy possessive about the house, and didn’t want her changing a thing about it. During the 1980’s and 90’s he had a couple of opportunities to remarry, but when talk turned to selling the house to make room for the new additions to the family he called off the engagements. I always thought that he was over-attached to the house; I didn’t know that he made a salary of $12,000.00 a year—and that made us poor.
When Dad did remarry in 1999, I questioned whether or not he would actually make the vows. I asked him what he planned on doing with the house. He said that Larry and Darin would live there, and he would move into his new wife's house. That’s when I knew that he had really decided to get married: to leave his home—unthinkable.
I know the reason why I think so much on this home these days: I am selling it. My dad died last October and I have the dubious honor of being his chosen representative for the estate. Brad came down from Alaska and put a lot of time and energy into cleaning up the house. We had it on the market for less than 72 hours before we got a good bid. I accepted the bid and now we are working towards closing the deal.
I have mixed feelings: on the one hand I've had a lot of stress dealing with the end-game of my father’s financial life. I know that we need to sell the house, and I am relieved to see that it has gone so quickly in this slow real estate market. On the other hand, this is the home of my childhood. I stand at the base of the big tree and wonder that I ever dared to climb so high. I look at the yard and think of all the fun of playing with the dogs of my life, and my Star Wars guys. My kids will never know the joy of this home…so I will have to teach them the joy of our home—the home where we live. Hopefully they will base their dreams in that home.
Still…I am going to have the bushes removed in the front: I want my Star Wars men
back.
Oddly enough, the “home” that I see doesn’t reflect my current living situation. Even though I love my house, my wife, my cat, my birds, and my brothers, I dream (as in asleep and dreaming) of another home. I dream of a home in a quiet neighborhood with a drive-in theatre at the top of the street. I reminisce about the big tree in the backyard where I could climb up high and escape the world below. I see the home with a dog in the backyard, and many lost Star Wars action figures under the big bush in the front yard. I dream of the home where I grew up in Lakewood, Colorado.
More than ever I find myself daydreaming over this home. It wasn’t just a three bedroom, one bathroom house that six kids and my dad occupied. This structure served as a person factory: a place that manufactured six responsible, mature, adults…okay maybe two or three, but a 50% success rate is pretty high in the research and development field.
My Dad started the mortgage on his house back in 1968. Real estate back then showed a different face than it does today. Though his monthly rates varied, they never topped over $100. As our family grew from four, to five, to six, to seven, and eventually to eight people, we learned to make do with the limited space. Two bunk beds sat in one bedroom, and two beds in the other (Anna’s room). The brother who slept in the room with the baby (Anna) was the brother who had to get up the earliest. I had a paper route for a couple of years, so I occupied that bed for a while.
When my Dad and Mom split, all six of us stayed with Dad. Mom told us that Dad was crazy possessive about the house, and didn’t want her changing a thing about it. During the 1980’s and 90’s he had a couple of opportunities to remarry, but when talk turned to selling the house to make room for the new additions to the family he called off the engagements. I always thought that he was over-attached to the house; I didn’t know that he made a salary of $12,000.00 a year—and that made us poor.
When Dad did remarry in 1999, I questioned whether or not he would actually make the vows. I asked him what he planned on doing with the house. He said that Larry and Darin would live there, and he would move into his new wife's house. That’s when I knew that he had really decided to get married: to leave his home—unthinkable.
I know the reason why I think so much on this home these days: I am selling it. My dad died last October and I have the dubious honor of being his chosen representative for the estate. Brad came down from Alaska and put a lot of time and energy into cleaning up the house. We had it on the market for less than 72 hours before we got a good bid. I accepted the bid and now we are working towards closing the deal.
I have mixed feelings: on the one hand I've had a lot of stress dealing with the end-game of my father’s financial life. I know that we need to sell the house, and I am relieved to see that it has gone so quickly in this slow real estate market. On the other hand, this is the home of my childhood. I stand at the base of the big tree and wonder that I ever dared to climb so high. I look at the yard and think of all the fun of playing with the dogs of my life, and my Star Wars guys. My kids will never know the joy of this home…so I will have to teach them the joy of our home—the home where we live. Hopefully they will base their dreams in that home.
Still…I am going to have the bushes removed in the front: I want my Star Wars men
back.
2 comments:
Thanks for your comment! You're the first one =)
You should put a picture of the house with the shrubbery gone in here. I would like to see what it looks like now.
It still hurts.
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