Today, I finish packing everything in my townhouse. Tomorrow, after the movers are done, I will unpack everything in a house .9 miles away.
In the past 18 years, I’ve moved over a dozen times. Two times, I moved into houses with husbands. Every other time, I moved into apartments or townhouses, perceiving myself as incapable of taking care of a house by myself. I saw myself as fragile, a dependent, in need of help.
Tomorrow, at age 55, I move into a house all by myself. It was built in 1944 and has 1600 square feet. It has a yard with a lawn and a garden. I’ve mowed a lawn once, tough bahia in Tampa. I can generally recognize a weed and pull one or two. I do know how to find someone to garden beautifully. So I’m not a homeowner or a mower or a gardener and tomorrow I will become all three.
Here is what I intend to do in my new house:
- Write a memoir of 2006-2014. I will pen the first word on the first day I wake up there, Thursday, November 20, 2014. Make tea, feed cats, write. Unpack and everything else later.
- Watch more Disney movies. That bitch TV stole my husbands and I’ve only let her into my world again recently, scorned, banished to the floor. It’s a groaner to get down there with her to watch Monsters, Inc. Enough. A La-Z-Boy sofa with built-in recliners will be delivered on moving day. Bitch TV is not to blame. I love her, too.
- Walk around the yard. The former owner planted blueberries and blackberries and apples and some kind of wondrous exotic pear tree in the front yard. Just look. See what I see.
- Have people over.
- Acknowledge ambivalence. Eye the bamboo in the backyard, feel the rage and, to quote David Pitonyak, try to make friends with it. Ponder whether or not I will handle my projection onto the bamboo of my rage against all-things-uncontrollable with a hatchet or with a backhoe.
- Not have a glass of champagne, or a bottle, or two, to celebrate moving into my new house. In fact, never have a glass, or, inevitably, a bottle, of sauvignon blanc, or Rogue beer, or tawny port there. Ever.
What I will miss most from my townhouse:
1) The Wall
2) Tiger, my neighbors’ cat, who made himself at home in my heart.
I am moving to the neighborhood in which I lived from 4th grade until marriage. I don’t remember who lived in the house. But Donita’s parents still live next door and Adrienne’s old house is right across the street. My dad still lives in my childhood home, around the corner, .2 miles away.
At 55, I feel like I might finally have found a home.
. . . . .
Added 11/21/14: My townhouse is ready to be home to a new owner! Here’s a full description!