Somehow, in 1995, my new-ish husband & I discovered that we could buy a house. We’d lived in a handful of apartments between the end of college, when we got married, and the start of that year but this was a chance to actually own a place together, and that felt important somehow. I knew (know) that a house is not always a home, and a home doesn’t have to be a house; home is a feeling of belonging & comfort, of safety and empowerment. Of being real in a place. A place where you find yourself growing roots, budding, blossoming. We were still seeking solid ground then.
We found a new neighborhood coming together with a variety of cute ramblers still for sale - three bedrooms, a backyard for our hounds,1 a garage to fit the only two vehicles2 we had then, and generally more floor space than we’d ever lived in as a couple, offering whole rooms for luxuries like a computer desk, formal dining set, or an ottoman. Plus it had a fireplace!3
The house was in the process of being built so my mechanical engineer husband would often drag take me over to see its progress. Admittedly, it was fun to watch a big muddy clearing become a rough concrete & wood frame, then solid walls & rooflines, and finally a structure where we could paint and decorate and play the stereo as loud as it would go/until the dogs howled. We moved in just before I got my first teaching job a few miles away.
One afternoon as I was blissfully doing something Home Ownerly in my yard, I heard a gunshot. I froze. Unlike where I lived while student teaching,4 this wasn’t an area known for crime. But before I could shout/run/start packing to move, I heard people cheering. I turned slowly toward the sound, puzzled, heart still racing. Then I remembered our neighborhood was near a high school and realized with sweaty relief they’d just started a track meet. I have not once since that moment felt such a pointed blend of stupidity and joy.
We only lived in our first house for two years. My husband ended up getting a new job with an hour-long (on the best days) commute, which felt difficult emotionally and didn’t make much sense financially. We decided to go For Sale By Owner5 and set up an open house. I got a small automatic coffee pot as we only had a tiny espresso machine, and baked cookies since all the magazine tips said to have aromatic treats for potential buyers. The first people in the door that morning were our neighbor friends who announced that they wanted to buy our house, at asking price, to use as a rental. No one else came by after them so we took down our sign, dumped the coffee, and ate all the cookies ourselves.
Good Times:
The house-buying neighbor friends had an Italian Greyhound who came over for playdates with our dogs: Rosebud, the Basset, would make one furiously valiant lap around the backyard before stepping on her own ears and collapsing in a satisfied, panting heap; Sally, our beagle, always raced the Greyhound - who appeared to be out for a leisurely jog the whole time - like it was the Dog Olympics until I intervened with snacks so she didn’t run herself into a heart attack.
First time using a glue gun: I made a hanging card holder - that I still put up during the holidays - out of foam core board, snowman-printed fabric, ribbons, and upholstery tacks.
Calling (on a telephone plugged into the wall) to make my first pledge with OPB Radio. Our member gift was a pound of locally roasted coffee and a Car Talk mug; I finally felt like an official (liberal) grown-up.
Finding an ad in Glamour magazine for a British Airways December weekend getaway then making another landline phone call to plan our first trip to London6
Hosting friends & family for Thanksgiving, a tradition we’ve continued since and hope will go on unless/until our kids decide to take it over.
Rough Times:
Coming home to discover (at different times)7 that Rosebud had eaten: a bag of Hershey kisses; dog toothpaste (metal tube and all, but not the plastic cap); an ant trap (again, leaving most of the plastic casing). Each time, the vet line assured us she would be fine once she threw up or pooped everything out, which was true.
Stu trying to quickly fix8 our malfunctioning garage door opener and inadvertently pulling a release cord that swiftly brought the garage door down onto the bridge of his nose. Miraculously, it didn’t break his nose but the sight (and eventual bruise) was breathtaking.
My comically heroic effort to take on the chore of lawn-mowing + save the environment with an old reel lawn mower9 I found at a garage sale. I might have made one full pass across our front yard before deciding to use the mower as decoration in the flower bed and relinquish the task back to my husband.
We’ve drove by our old house once many years after moving, out of curiosity. It was painted a different color, the tree out front much taller; the small neighborhood was filled with more cars & basketball hoops, the land around sprawled with strip malls instead of fields after the urban growth boundary expanded. It felt a little sad reconciling the changes, and not having any real connections there anymore.
Yet despite spending only two years there, it was still a special place for us: We didn’t have our kids there but friends brought theirs over to play with the dogs; my mother-in-law helped plant bulbs that we saw bloom a couple of times; my husband and his dad worked on all kinds of handyman projects together. And even though we repeated those things and grew even stronger roots at our next (now) house, nothing would feel like it did at our first home.
Home is where one starts from
…Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter.
…
Here or there does not matter
We must be still and still moving
…- T. S. Eliot, from “Four Quartets” Part II: East Coker
Not a euphemism for children - we didn’t have any yet - but our real dogs, Sally & Rosebud, a beagle and a Basset Hound.
I won’t disclose how many we now have because it sounds ridiculous out loud, but each one does come in handy for a different purpose. As long as my husband pledges to always drive on road trips or when there is snow and I must get to Trader Joe’s, I will not complain.
With a switch for gas, not a place to put logs and light with a match but it’s the illusion of being a real skilled adult who could cook over a flame in her back room if she really wanted to that counted. Also, I was excited to have a mantle to decorate seasonally.
Hillyard, in Spokane - I chose a studio apartment there because it was close to my school + quite cheap, and even though there were some sketchy things going on in/around my building (a neighbor using power tools all. the. time and the basement laundry I never went near), I’m richer for the experience. Plus it gave me extra cred with students when they saw me at the neighborhood laundromat.
Because young & confident plus it was a startlingly simpler time in America, so I could use my part-time Barnes & Noble employee discount to get a book of DIY forms
Though now every trip we make is at least partially if not entirely managed online, I had to speak with live humans to get our flights and hotel booked; we had no real knowledge about the neighborhood we’d be staying in or what our room looked like, or how to navigate the transportation system. It was a bona fide adventure, especially for a #Virgo planner like me.
It took us much longer than it should have to realize a Basset Hound, though low to the ground most of the time, could be about 4’ tall on her hind legs, with an 8” snout to knock whatever she wanted onto the floor for easy eating.
In his fancy clothes, as we were on our way out for a dinner & show date. P.S. He still drove. #TrueLove
There's something special about your first house. Our first house was recently up for sale and I looked at the pictures on Zillow. Ah, memories. Sounds like you came of age in that space, I like the memories you include about those early public radio pledges and craft projects!
It was a great first house and I am so glad we hung our financial butt out in the wind to get it. We would not be where we are without it