The Craigslist search began, and it was pretty disheartening. Some places looked like they should be condemned, others were well over our budget. The buck didn't go near as far for rental square footage as it did in our old town. Luckily, we had a friend who was eager to help and sent us two listings that we ended up going to see that same day.
The first house was a duplex, and it smelled. The tiles that covered the kitchen countertop were busted and jagged, the drawers didn't close. There was standing water in the basement garage, and pets weren't allowed in the upstairs bedrooms. It clearly wasn't going to work out.
We went to the second, and there was no comparison. Everything looked nicer and newer, and it even had a built-in bookshelf in the living room - fate. Two bedrooms, one bath. A basement. A kitchen with a bar. It was the one, and we did everything we could to get an offer in that same night.
When I look at stages of my life, I've never been one to get too attached. I remember the feeling of elation I had at eighth grade graduation - no sentimentality for my elementary and middle school, I'd be going to high school! On to bigger and better things! And the same, mostly for the transition from high school to college. Too much excitement to think about anything I'd miss from high school. And so, when it came time to move out of our duplex that we shared with our two college friends, I shouldn't have been surprised but was a little disconcerted that I wasn't more emotional about it all. I loved college and I loved our duplex - but it was time for bigger and better things.
It took me awhile to formulate feelings about our new neighborhood. Our friend had described it as "working class." I called it "shady." We were in a good enough area, but the drive from the highway to where we lived was somewhat questionable.
What you never seem to notice is how something slowly seeps into your being - that feeling of comfort and home. I can't pinpoint a time when I thought, "This is it. I love living here," but as we prepared to leave, it was a feeling I couldn't shake. I started telling people how hard I thought it was going to be for me to leave, and every day brought almost a sense of dread - of having to say goodbye and never return. Maybe for visits, sure, but it's just not the same.
There are so many little things that became a part of who I was in that neighborhood. The gas station on the corner where we would buy big ass sodas and candy bars and ice cream and Skittles. The Chipotle on the corner that we ate at on average of at least twice a week. The Walgreens where we bought our groceries when we first moved in because we didn't know where the nearest grocery store was. And our sweet old Santa Claus cashier named Joe that would always chat with us about Mizzou and the weather and how good Walgreens' BBQ chicken pizza was. Braving the more-than-a-foot deep snows to walk there for cookies and milk. Our questionable neighbors. The trail where we took walk after walk, especially that first spring when we moved in. Spending a whole Saturday walking to the Plaza to spend time at Barnes & Noble and people watch and see all the high-dollar cars.
Our poor cat didn't acclimate quite so well at first, hiding between the shower curtains for days on end. Once she decided it was her house, there was no going back, though, and you could hear her come bounding through the house when she realized a window was opening for her to jump into.
It was also the house where I spent four months basically alone as Sean went through Police Academy in a city four hours away. Sometimes I look back on it and still don't know how I did it - just me and my less-than-protective Australian Shepard. It was the house that Ringo and I became best buds in because we only really had each other. The daily walks, even in the snow, and he would get so excited and race around the house and fall on the hardwood floor because he had no traction.
We watched hundreds of movies, danced in the small kitchen, and learned how to be grownups. I probably took years off of my life worrying about the huge tree that was hanging over power lines in the backyard and how our house might go up in flames. Or how the house was literally caving in upon itself and the floor would eventually just bottom out because there was clearly no support system, and the subfloor was rotted.
We even had a mouse that we met in the first few weeks of living there that we named Maurice. He was never seen again, though, after we moved our cat Lola up with us. I still worried about mice living in the walls and chewing the wiring, though. I mean, who wouldn't worry about that kind of thing, right?
I had countless migraines and sick days spent in that house, and much drama as always seems to follow me (not that I tend to create it or anything). We started our first "real" jobs while living in that house, and I had my first freelance translation project that saw me sitting at the kitchen table for hours on end working and working to get it finished (and playing several hundred rounds of Candy Crush during my breaks).
We had to put half of our clothes in tubs in the basement because the closets were so small, and we barely had enough room to turn around in the bathroom, the hallway or the kitchen. Our 50-pound dog sure wasn't helping matters either. He shrunk the space by at least a quarter. We banged our knees on the bar so many times trying to step over him while he was eating, and I sustained multiple toe and foot injuries on the coffee table all thanks to him and our teeny tiny square footage.
I can't even begin to recount or recall all the memories that were created in that house, because so many have already passed through me. But what I realized as I was fixing the blinds that were destroyed by our cat and wiping our dog's snot off the walls is how much I came to love that house. Truly and deeply. Every single part of it had memories attached to it. Big and small things that had happened in our lives that changed us in so many ways. Things we learned to live with in the house and things we simply couldn't live with any more.
I had my reasons for leaving, but the closer and closer it came to time, I questioned if I really wanted to leave. I questioned if another house could ever mean as much to me as this one did. If I could ever have as much fun in one single place or ever create as many memories.
I wept. I wept because I knew that I was leaving a huge part of me in that house, and that even if we ever went back to see it, it wouldn't be our house again. I wept because it was empty and because in taking away everything we had created, we had taken away the house I knew and loved so deeply. I wept because I was moving on, and I didn't want to.
I still can't believe the attachment I feel for that one certain place - our piece of the world and our first place that we learned to grow up.
We drove by a couple days ago, and the string lights and windchime no longer hang from the porch. There are bicycles and potted plants everywhere.
It's no longer our house.
But it will always, always be our first home, at least in my memory.
When I look at stages of my life, I've never been one to get too attached. I remember the feeling of elation I had at eighth grade graduation - no sentimentality for my elementary and middle school, I'd be going to high school! On to bigger and better things! And the same, mostly for the transition from high school to college. Too much excitement to think about anything I'd miss from high school. And so, when it came time to move out of our duplex that we shared with our two college friends, I shouldn't have been surprised but was a little disconcerted that I wasn't more emotional about it all. I loved college and I loved our duplex - but it was time for bigger and better things.
It took me awhile to formulate feelings about our new neighborhood. Our friend had described it as "working class." I called it "shady." We were in a good enough area, but the drive from the highway to where we lived was somewhat questionable.
What you never seem to notice is how something slowly seeps into your being - that feeling of comfort and home. I can't pinpoint a time when I thought, "This is it. I love living here," but as we prepared to leave, it was a feeling I couldn't shake. I started telling people how hard I thought it was going to be for me to leave, and every day brought almost a sense of dread - of having to say goodbye and never return. Maybe for visits, sure, but it's just not the same.
There are so many little things that became a part of who I was in that neighborhood. The gas station on the corner where we would buy big ass sodas and candy bars and ice cream and Skittles. The Chipotle on the corner that we ate at on average of at least twice a week. The Walgreens where we bought our groceries when we first moved in because we didn't know where the nearest grocery store was. And our sweet old Santa Claus cashier named Joe that would always chat with us about Mizzou and the weather and how good Walgreens' BBQ chicken pizza was. Braving the more-than-a-foot deep snows to walk there for cookies and milk. Our questionable neighbors. The trail where we took walk after walk, especially that first spring when we moved in. Spending a whole Saturday walking to the Plaza to spend time at Barnes & Noble and people watch and see all the high-dollar cars.
Our poor cat didn't acclimate quite so well at first, hiding between the shower curtains for days on end. Once she decided it was her house, there was no going back, though, and you could hear her come bounding through the house when she realized a window was opening for her to jump into.
It was also the house where I spent four months basically alone as Sean went through Police Academy in a city four hours away. Sometimes I look back on it and still don't know how I did it - just me and my less-than-protective Australian Shepard. It was the house that Ringo and I became best buds in because we only really had each other. The daily walks, even in the snow, and he would get so excited and race around the house and fall on the hardwood floor because he had no traction.
We watched hundreds of movies, danced in the small kitchen, and learned how to be grownups. I probably took years off of my life worrying about the huge tree that was hanging over power lines in the backyard and how our house might go up in flames. Or how the house was literally caving in upon itself and the floor would eventually just bottom out because there was clearly no support system, and the subfloor was rotted.
We even had a mouse that we met in the first few weeks of living there that we named Maurice. He was never seen again, though, after we moved our cat Lola up with us. I still worried about mice living in the walls and chewing the wiring, though. I mean, who wouldn't worry about that kind of thing, right?
I had countless migraines and sick days spent in that house, and much drama as always seems to follow me (not that I tend to create it or anything). We started our first "real" jobs while living in that house, and I had my first freelance translation project that saw me sitting at the kitchen table for hours on end working and working to get it finished (and playing several hundred rounds of Candy Crush during my breaks).
We had to put half of our clothes in tubs in the basement because the closets were so small, and we barely had enough room to turn around in the bathroom, the hallway or the kitchen. Our 50-pound dog sure wasn't helping matters either. He shrunk the space by at least a quarter. We banged our knees on the bar so many times trying to step over him while he was eating, and I sustained multiple toe and foot injuries on the coffee table all thanks to him and our teeny tiny square footage.
I can't even begin to recount or recall all the memories that were created in that house, because so many have already passed through me. But what I realized as I was fixing the blinds that were destroyed by our cat and wiping our dog's snot off the walls is how much I came to love that house. Truly and deeply. Every single part of it had memories attached to it. Big and small things that had happened in our lives that changed us in so many ways. Things we learned to live with in the house and things we simply couldn't live with any more.
I had my reasons for leaving, but the closer and closer it came to time, I questioned if I really wanted to leave. I questioned if another house could ever mean as much to me as this one did. If I could ever have as much fun in one single place or ever create as many memories.
I wept. I wept because I knew that I was leaving a huge part of me in that house, and that even if we ever went back to see it, it wouldn't be our house again. I wept because it was empty and because in taking away everything we had created, we had taken away the house I knew and loved so deeply. I wept because I was moving on, and I didn't want to.
I still can't believe the attachment I feel for that one certain place - our piece of the world and our first place that we learned to grow up.
We drove by a couple days ago, and the string lights and windchime no longer hang from the porch. There are bicycles and potted plants everywhere.
It's no longer our house.
But it will always, always be our first home, at least in my memory.
