Archive for June, 2015

Home. Sweet Home.



Lately I’ve been thinking of moving to another home.

I never thought those words would come out of my mouth. I’ve lived in this house nearly 26 years, and there are no words to describe my love for the place. Even the faulty wiring, the wet basement, the “dated” look of the place — it doesn’t matter. I have never felt happier, safer, more content anywhere else I’ve ever lived. This house is my haven; my sanctuary, my center.

And yet.

My old knees (oddly much older than the rest of my body) rebel at the stairs. Doing laundry in the basement is becoming a carefully thought-out trip. Same thing for cleaning the litter box upstairs. (Is this trip necessary?)

At age 41, I gave no thought to my oncoming decrepitude (a word that comes to mind so often) or the aches and pains that would eventually come along to someone who didn’t think twice about a three-storied home, or the corner lot which takes lots of shoveling, or the yard which needs mowing and trimming and upkeep. It was easy twenty-six years ago. Now? Not very.

So there’s that.

As a home help worker, I get to see a lot of senior apartments and senior complexes, and some of them aren’t so bad. At times, the idea of a smaller place all on one floor is very appealing to me. I imagine myself living simply (where did I get all this stuff that I really never needed?) perhaps enjoying morning coffee on a nice balcony overlooking a lake or woods. Serenity, no shoveling, no branches to trim… very appealing.

Decisions, decisions. Many folks my age are talking about moving to smaller places. Everything on one floor. (What a brilliant idea! Maybe I should have bought that ranch style with the attached garage.) Some friends and I are comparing rental prices on places around town. Financially, it may be cheaper to stay here. Yet to be determined.


If home is truly where the heart is, couldn’t I love another place as much as this one? Perhaps.

But today, my one day this week with nothing to do, I was enjoying the sunshine with the cats on the sun porch as they napped and I worked my way through a good book, feeling guilty about the mowing that wasn’t getting done. The clouds darkened and the skies opened, and the rain poured down.

I set down my book and looked out at my yard. My sidewalk. My trees. My bench, my Little Free Library, my neighbors, my street. Could I ever leave this?

For not the first time in my life, I am stupefied with love.