Home, Part II

The summer after third grade my parents start looking at houses and property in our town. Stephen and I ride along, only partially paying attention from the back seat as our parents discuss locations, property taxes, and changing school districts together. My ears perk up when they mention a location that has a barn and riding ring on site, but that house is not meant to be.

Eventually they settle on a new development being built further away from the center of town, each plot located on its own private, wooded, 3 1/2 acres. We tour the spec house multiple times, my parents copy the model - same floor plan and layout - but add their own unique requests. Stephen and I get to help select our rooms, Mom lets us pick the shades of carpet we want installed. We visit the house often, to check - and excitedly comment - over how the building is coming along. While Mom talks to the builders, Stephen and I spend hours playing at the site. We climb on piles of dirt, we gather scraps of wood for games. Once the frame of the house is up, we spend the time playing hide and seek, mystified by the idea that one day there will be walls and floors and doors and windows in the empty cut-outs we climb through. In our eyes the foundation of our house is one giant playground.

In February of 1989 my parents close on our old home and settle on the new one on the same day. Of course, my brother and I are at school during the closing procedures but at one point in the day I joke with my friends that my family and I will be homeless for one hour in the afternoon. That night, the house - our house - smells of fresh cut wood and newly laid carpet. Mom has arranged my yellow furniture on my jade green carpet. She displays a few horseback riding trophies on my bureau, making it feel cozy. I crawl in to bed and sleep soundly, never once thinking back to our other house, our old house that is no longer ours. I recognize that this one has been built just for us. I fall in love instantly.

My brother and I have bedrooms right next to each other. We invent a game I call "apartment" where we pretend we live in New York City and we are neighbors in an apartment building. Our "game" consists of nothing, really. We knock on one anothers door and invite each other over for dinner. I casually mention things like running down the street to the New York Public Library and would he like me to pick up a book? We tire of "apartment" rather quickly and often go downstairs to our playroom in the finished basement. The hall leading downstairs is lined with my horseback riding ribbons and trophies. 1st place blues, 2nd place reds, and all the colors of the rainbow hang on the walls. My trophies stand on the built-in shelf. Eventually my brother is old enough to join a swim team. His ribbons begin to share wall space with my own.

Stephen and I spend hours in the basement. I play Barbies while he plays with GI Joes. I set up a classroom and play teacher, forcing Stephen and my stuffed animals to be my eager students. For Christmas one year we get roller skates. We do our best to turn our carpeted basement floor into a skating rink by laying down old scrap planks of wood we find in the garage. The roller skating rink we imagine doesn't ever quite fully materialize.

A few months after we move in, another family moves in next door. They have two children - both girls - one a few years younger than me, the other the same exact age as my brother. The four of us discover a worn path in the woods between our houses. We become fast friends and spend hours upon hours together, almost always inventing some sort of game to play outdoors. Our neighbors build a pool. They are gracious hosts and invite us over to swim almost every afternoon. On the days we don't hear from them, my brother and I run around the front yard yelling as loud as we can about "what a hot day it is!" and how it "sure would nice to cool off!" The phone tends to ring with a pool invite about thirty minutes after our "subtle" plan.

There is a tree at the end of our driveway, smack in the middle. We do not know why the builders left it there but it becomes a perfect landmark when giving friends directions. Our front yard forms a perfect baseball diamond. The neighbors and I play ball games all summer long, never truly keeping score. My parents joke that along with raising a family, they are running a zoo. At the peak of pet ownership we have three cats, one dog, one rabbit, a bird, several fresh water fish and two hamsters. Oh, and a horse. But she doesn't live on the property. Instead, she is a mile down the road. I'm able to take my bike over to ride; I go almost daily. Our dog, a daschund named Pepper, is obsessed with tires. He loves to try and chase car tires when we drive away from the house. This prompts Stephen and I to consistently lean out the car windows yelling "No, Pepper, No!" as Mom speeds down the driveway to outrun him. Eventually we put in a pool. This home is a haven, a treasure. It feels perfect. Because it is.

It is in this house that I wake throughout many summer days to the sound of my Mom mowing our front lawn. One of those mornings, at 15 or 16, I wake and realize, with utter clarity, what a delightful and comforting sound I am hearing. I make a mental note that morning, as I lay in bed listening to the mower and watching the sun poor in through the windows to think of this moment always; to remember it when I find myself feeling lonesome or blue.

My bedroom has simple white sheer curtains hanging on the windows. One afternoon, again around the age of 15, I am struck by how beautiful and serene I find watching those curtains billow in the breeze. I decide right then and there on two things 1.) I must live abroad at some point in my life and 2.) I will always have white curtains hanging in at least one room no matter where I live.

I have had white curtains in all of my apartments since.

My parents divorce while we live in this house. The divorce seems to happen quickly and I don't recall a tremendous amount of the details. I'm sure this is partially due to the fact that I didn't want to recognize the events and also in part because my parents made an effort to make their separation as smooth as possible for Stephen and me. Dad moves out and buys another house a mile away. While I miss seeing him nightly, he doesn't ever feel too far away. Mom invites him over for special dinners and holidays, he still plays a major part in our daily lives.

In 1997, at the end of August, I am to move to Boston to start my freshman year at BU. Much to my mother's frustration I avoid packing all summer long, hoping if I ignore the chore it will go away. The night before I am to leave for college I stay up all night, sorting through clothes and CDs and photo albums, packing, packing, and packing. My stomach is tied in knots. I am nervous and scared to death about what lies before me. The next morning I ask my Mom if I can be the last one to walk out of the house that day, before we all get on the road to Boston. She is frazzled, packing for the trip, and a tad annoyed at my own packing procrastination. "What does it matter who leaves last, Kel?" she asks exasperated. I shake my head and sigh. Back to my room I go. I lie down on my bed and play Tracy Chapman's The Promise on my CD player. I figure if I can't be the last one to walk out of the house, I will at least play a bit of a lullaby to my house.

Dad arrives to help load the heavy stuff, the four of us are to drive North in two separate cars. When the Explorer is loaded, Dad asks if I'm ready to go. I shrug. We climb in and drive down the long, paved driveway toward the street. I stare, nose pressed against the glass until our house is out of sight. "It's just that," I say to my Dad, "I know things will never be the same after today, no matter what."

In the summer of 1999, Mom puts the house up for sale. Her parents, both living in Georgia, are ill. Someone needs to be closer to them, to run the family affairs. My brother has just finished 8th grade; it makes sense to move before he starts high school. Despite the fact that I know why the move is happening and why the house needs to sell, I pray nightly that something changes, that Stephen and Mom end up not having to move after all.

The house sells. Movers come to load up the moving van one day while I am at work at a nearby YMCA camp. I know that I probably could have asked for the day off, but I don't even try to speak to my boss about it. I'd rather not be there, would rather not bear witness to the dismantling of our house. So I don't go, I do not watch. I cannot bear to.

It has been almost 12 years since any member of my family held a key to unlock our house's front door. I have driven by the house only once since then while in my hometown. Through the trees I could see that the new owners had changed the colors of the shutters. I haven't not driven by it again.

I once learned a trick to help counter insomnia. While lying in bed, you are to close your eyes and picture yourself in one of your favorite places. You should imagine a spot you feel secure, comfortable, loved. As you lie there, you are to run over details in your mind - things like the colors of the spot you are picturing, the sounds and smells you might hear. Eventually, if you are lucky, you will drift back to sleep, awash in a happy memory.

My go-to spot is almost always this house.

The home we built from the ground up.