Its another Monday. Last night the rain slammed against this small house and this morning the wind is still pushing at the walls. I can hear the rain, faintly, in the back drop of the wind, still coming down. Still saturating the earth around me. I hear the rain and all i think is mud. My truck will be surrounded by it and the yard will be a swamp. I guess i don't mind the rain, really, as long as I'm working inside, but when it comes to working outside in the rain, no matter what gear is available or how hard it rains, i always end up feeling wet and cold. The mornings, these rainy dark Monday mornings, stimulate the urge to stay in with my coffee and hammer away at the key board. All motivation for getting ready for work has vanished, very quickly, what little there was before. My coffee is good this morning, rich and black, and our house is snug against the weather. This is a good place to spend a morning. This house, loaded with memories.
We have lived in two apartments and this house and we are preparing to move to another house at the end of the month. And as we begin packing and making a major clear out of stuff we don't use or want any longer i am struck by the memories that are encased in the walls around me. Memories are beginning to live around me like ghosts. Just beyond clarity and reality, they hover in my vision and the growth of my boys, the joys and challenges of my marriage, the friends I've had and have, are all part of a misty horizon as i go about my day. But within the house there are things specific; milestones and events that define growing up--for all of us.
Now, in all honesty, this house does drive me nuts. There are things that need replaced and repaired, non-critical they maybe but worn and broken none the less. The layout and lack of thought in design and addition is baffling and bizarre, especially having lived here the better part of three years. It is small. It has bad paint in our bedroom. It is a rental. But it is a cache of memories and packing is a bit melancholy. The screen saver on our computer is a slide show of photos that goes back some time, i think dating back to my older son at 2, we were in a small two bedroom apartment where he learned to crawl and walk. Where a bike was stolen. Where i left lumber sails to become a carpenter, where i started playing indoor soccer. Where we shared our first Christmas dinner with friends instead of traveling to be with family. Where i sold my VW Golf, a '91 that i regret selling deeply. This house where we've grown, added a son, learned to mt. bike again, acquired a boat that is not "sea worthy", neglected the lawn and garden.
We haven't owned the places we've lived, haven't invested in them financially--for ourselves. But by virtue living and loving in the places we've been, we've made an emotional investment and a part of the small one bedroom on Elm street that our oldest came home to and a piece of the two bedroom on Pacific street and a piece of this house on King St., that gives this blog its name, belong to us and always will. Do you remember the Beatles song that goes: "There are places I remember some have changed and some the same, but these places have there meaning, for people and friends...in my way I've loved them all." A bit cliche, perhaps, but it is true, i look back on places I've been and lived and remember the people i have loved in those places. Some remain with me today and some are alive, to me, only in my memory. It is hard growing up. I am almost thirty and the process of growing and changing should be a bit more simple now and less challenging. But its not.
My oldest son will turn six this year but i still remember his first birthday and the wonder of first discovery remains with him. Our youngest will turn one and i still see him as a new born. My wife and i will turn thirty but i still feel like a I'm just starting out. I guess getting older doesn't particularly mean growing up, its all just stages of learning.
:)
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