The house is sold

The house is sold. After one year on the market, two offers, and numerous showings, it is sold. And, with those words, it is hard to describe how it makes me feel. The automatic reaction is “Hooray! Fabulous! Great!” But, this house was more than a place to live. It was the place I called home for most of my life. And, as relieved as I am to be released from its obligations, I am also sad that it had to be sold.

My parents purchased this house in 1974 right before my dad retired from the Air Force. This was the first house that we owned that did not have wheels! (Seriously!) Until then, my family would move from place to place across America, and we would take our house along with us. We lived in North Carolina (obviously), South Carolina, Michigan, and Arizona—all before I was 10 years old—and that house went with us on every leg of the journey.

A few years after returning from Arizona, dad decided that it was time to retire, and we moved from the mobile home to the brick home on Norwood Avenue. I was almost 12 years old at the time. The street was sprinkled with a few houses; ours was the newest addition to the neighborhood. We were the first family to live in this house; and, until now, we were the only family to live in it.

In 1974 the road in front of our house was dirt. I loved to ride my bike up and down the road and kick up the dust. Eventually I obtained my driver’s license and learned to kick up a lot more dust with my first car.

Through the years, my dad and mom divorced. Dad moved to Tennessee. Mom stayed in the house. By the time I turned 18 the dirt road was paved. I moved in with a few friends (into another house with wheels); but, when my dad died of cancer in 1982, he left his portion of the house to me. When I was engaged in 1984, I moved back into the house to save money for the wedding. Ironically, my mom remarried about six months after my wedding in 1985. She moved in with her new husband, and my husband and I made Norwood Avenue our home.

Children were born a few years later. Melissa arrived on Valentine’s Day, 1987; and Wesley followed shortly thereafter in September 1988. My kids grew up in this house. They crawled, walked, and ran through its halls. They slammed doors and blasted music through the windows. They graduated from bassinet to crib to bed within the same four walls. They played in the same backyard for 18 years and shared the same neighborhood with their friends and foes during that time. We filled the back yard with a swimming pool, a fire pit, a slip and slide, a basketball goal, a toss back, a barn, and various pets, including Precious, Snickers, Sam, Abby, Boots, Patches, and Chester. We rescued birds. We watched bunnies play in the yard at night. We played h-o-r-s-e a million or more times when the weather would permit, and chess when the weather would not. We had dozens of birthday parties and slumber parties and movie nights.

The kids learned the freedom of riding their bikes around the neighborhood (just as I had) and the ultimate freedom of driving their own cars. By the time Wes got his driver’s license, our front yard was looking like a used car lot. We just kept growing and changing, and the house kept accommodating us. My husband and I divorced in 2003, and Melissa left for college in August 2005. Wes and I spent a final year in the neighborhood while we made plans to leave as well. Wes would be heading to college in August 2006, and I made plans to attend law school then as well.

I remember the day that I knew I had to tell my neighbor of 33 years (Carol) that we were moving and selling the house. It was easier to tell folks of the divorce than to break this news. We stood in her backyard and cried crocodile tears. She and I had come into possession of our homes in much the same way. Her parents had owned her home and she grew up there, just as my parents had owned my home when I was younger. We had watched each other marry, divorce, and raise children. We had mowed each other’s lawns. We could call each other in the dead of night when we were scared of a storm or we heard something that just was not right. She had a key to my house and was welcome to enter it at anytime. We could spend endless hours at the fence just catching up; and if I ever needed an egg, flour, sugar, or milk, I knew I could get it from Carol much quicker than I could from the store.

August 2006 we rolled out of the neighborhood. Wes headed to Wilmington, and I headed to Virginia. I have been to the house on each of my visits to North Carolina and I have visited Carol on many of those trips to Norwood Avenue. As elated as I am that I do not have a mortgage payment anymore, it does seem unusual to know that I am no longer a part of that neighborhood. But, what wonderful pages we wrote while living there. My kids and I can testify that it was a wonderful place to grow up, and it will always hold a special place in my heart, even though it is now sold.