Is this our last winter in this house? Jon asked the question last night as we lit the first Advent candle. We’ve been looking at a piece of property in town, and apart from the price, it seems perfect for our needs.
This little house has been a struggle to love. It’s just a shoebox with a garage attached; Jon owned it when we married, and because of the malaise that settles in when you’re just getting by, he had not done much to it except paint the interior. It felt non-descript, unloved, and more like a rental. There’s no privacy to speak of; because of the situation of the property, both front and back yards are visible from streets lined with similarly non-descript houses, the “contractor specials” of the booming ’90s: small houses made from cheap materials with as little personality as possible. When I first came here, having grown up in the woods, I felt watched from every angle. I wanted to move as soon as we could.
But the town where I grew up and where we go to church has gentrified, house prices skyrocketing and then skyrocketing again. So we stayed. The neighborhood has been quiet and relatively safe. We tried (and mostly failed) to grow a garden, the high desert winds and extremes of heat and cold making it difficult–not to mention, a septic leach field on a quarter of an acre; we’ve only grown food in a raised bed and Greenstalk towers. We’ve made cosmetic changes to the bathrooms and put in some new doors, but with no space to work, and high winds picking up whenever you venture outside to do something, the new trim and other doors have had to wait. All along, I’ve fought between the strong desire to move, and the understanding that moving probably was out of reach. I determined over and over again to make the little house feel loved, like people who loved it lived here, so the next people who came would love it and feel loved by it, too.
A new paint job and beautiful black door with an owl-shaped knocker. The name of Jesus carved into the stump left from a juniper we cut down. A fence to keep the dog in and that, surprisingly, made the lot feel larger. A little shed, with windows added just because. Slowly, it started to feel like a home. The final thing, and surely the best, was the cast-iron woodstove, small but putting out so much heat we can’t keep the fire going after 11 o’clock. The woodstove made the house feel finally cozy and like it had a personality of its own. The house had become a home.
The idea that we might move after all these years is captivating and scary at the same time. Right now, we’re holding our breath, because the property we want costs too much and we need to have a place for my mom on it as well. I’ve no idea if we’ll really do it, if we’ll really be able to buy it and build a life closer to town and our church and the people we love. But sitting there in front of the Advent wreath last night, I knew that in spite of all the problems, when we do go, I will surely miss this little place.
