My brother alerted me to the fact that our childhood home is up for sale. I will admit to having a strange reaction to this news, and especially to the pictures of the house. This house was home for me from the time I was a toddler until I graduated college. It was a great house that my parent’s were constantly improving. They changed the entrance to the house, expanded the kitchen, added an eat-in area, made a large addition with a great room and a formal dining room, as well as fixing up the attic as a playroom/extra bedroom. These renovations were done with great care and with a nearly spotless safety record (there was the unfortunate incident when my father fell through the attic into my brother’s and my bedroom). More importantly, it was a great home in every sense of the word.
So when my parent’s moved out in the 80’s, we were all surprised when there was little sentiment attached to this act. To be sure, part of this was probably due to the fact that they were moving to the central Connecticut version of Xanadu and we children had been out of the house for a number of years by then. Still, it seemed a little strange how quickly we all moved on.
I was therefore quite surprised at my reaction to seeing the web page advertising the house. It wasn’t seeing that the house was for sale—for all I know it has changed hands dozens of times since my parent’s sold it. But the pictures showed how much the house had changed. There is now a Jacuzzi on the first floor, a spiral staircase in the great room, and an overall very stark, modern feel to the house. I don’t begrudge the owners’ changes, and to be frank, some of them look quite nice. I know it sounds trite, but I guess what struck me in a small but noticeable way, was that this house is never going to be home again. This is truly a bizarre feeling to have, as I can count on the portions of the remaining hand of a careless bomb maker how many times I’ve thought of this house in the last 20 years.
My best to the new owners. You’re getting a great place.