Goodbye Childhood Home, It's Been Real

I had the seemingly rare experience of living in the same house my entire life from birth until I was 17. 

Most people I encounter share stories from their childhoods using various family relocations between different cities and homes as markers to help them figure out what age they were, or what grade they might have been in, during the events. For me, my life from age 0-17 sort of blurs into one big chunk of time. I can use my own markers, like which of the 3 available kids' bedrooms I called my own, or which siblings were still left at home with me and which had already gone off to college to help me figure out a rough timeline of events in my young life. But no relocations or home swapping of any kind occurred during my formative years. 

This is all fine and dandy to me. I definitely made up for lost time once I left my childhood home at age 17 and headed off to college, thus beginning an epic span of time in which I moved practically once a year for the next 10 years. After the monotony of the same house with the same decor and same layout and same neighborhood for most of my young life, I was especially excited for college dorms and early-20's-apartment-living for the change of scenery. Little did I know that I would end up being tossed around from one weird living situation to another for many years to come. 

When my father passed away in 2008, suddenly that childhood home was an empty, memory-filled beast of burden on the family. It was especially hard for my mother to be there all alone, dealing with ghosts of my father's presence and their life built there over the last 40 years. Eventually we relocated her to be closer to the rest of my family in Southern California and put the house up for sale just in time for the housing bubble to burst and wreak havoc on the California real estate market. Obviously no real offers have come through in quite some time. We have been waiting for someone to take it off our hands for a while now. 

Recently, an actual legit offer came through, and after some back and forth offers and counter offers, suddenly my childhood home stands on the brink of being sold. 

I won't even bother expounding too much on how frustrating it is that after such a long silence, we finally get an offer now of all times. Of course it has to be during the final stretch of wedding planning for me, thus making it a logistical nightmare for me to even consider getting out there to see the house one last time and help my family vacate the place we called home for my entire life. This is all very depressing to me. But I am trying to be strong and realize that it does not need to be this big dramatic movie exit where I wander the rooms and cry and catch glimpses of my dead father in bathroom mirrors or anything. It can simply be the end of an era when that house was a part of my life. And now it will be a part of my history. And my memories of it are probably more vivid than any that a final walk-though would provide. 

So, (and this is assuming I don't just flip out and jump on a plane to my hometown and make it work somehow before my impending nuptials) I guess this is the end for me and that old house. Goodbye, old friend. You hold many of my secrets and memories and tears and joys within your walls. Thanks for being a good friend to me and my family.

                                                            (view of my old backyard)

ALSO:

My recent reflections on my childhood home got me thinking about my subsequent journey into different living situations in the years after I left. I have had some pretty weird living arrangements and roommates that make for some fun stories to share. 

I have decided to post a series of short writing exercises on my blog about the different places I have lived and see how far I get. I reserve the right to ditch this project if I decide I am tired of writing about this. I also reserve the right to go out of order.  I will try to number them so we can keep track. Sound good? Good.