My precious older friend moved into her home when I was going on two years old.
She has lived my lifetime there. And a large part of her own.
But now she has gone along with her children’s urging and sold her home. The first two offers were from people who were going to tear it down. The man who bought it is going to restore it. So she hopes.
Fifty-nine years ago, she and her husband restored an old gem and made it into a beautiful home, and a comfortable spot for raising their three children.
She once told us that the local history organization wouldn’t allow them to place a historic marker at their home because they had altered the original facade. “But’s there’s a marker there,” I said. “Oh, we bought that and put it up ourselves,” she replied.
Their backyard, which borders a city park, was a longtime home to a pair of buzzards, often written about in the paper. “They never got in my way,” she said. I suppose everyone felt comfortable there.
She loved for her friends to stop by and sit with her on the screened porch. No doubt she will miss that the most.
The large tree between the house and garage grew and grew and grew, raising the asphalt driveway into a formidable hump. “Be careful and watch out for the tree when you pull to the back to pick me up,” she would always say.
My parents moved out of their home after 37 years. It was a tough, heartbreaking move for them. It is now the same for my friend.
I can only imagine how hard it is to leave your home of 59 years.
What parts of your heart stay behind, whether you chose to leave them or not?