I did the math the other night and worked out that with the exception of my childhood home, we’ve lived in this house for longer than any other I’ve ever lived in. You’d think that six-plus years would tie you to a place more than it has, and two/four/six months ago I would’ve agreed with you. After all, we poured thousands into our backyard landscaping and done numerous other jobs I won’t bore you in describing. I was perfectly satisfied here – a few more years weren’t out of the question.
Yes, ‘satisfied’. A pretty broad, bland adjective as far as they go. Satisfied meaning content, but not much more; because I was also adept at ignoring the tsunami of kid’s mess oozing across our carpet and Riley’s drawings upon the wall are now melding into some sort of giant cohesion I’m sure Mr. Squiggle would be proud of. We have storage, but we do not have space. And space, my friends, is something my husband is pining after.
So now we’re Getting Very Serious about contemplating a move and will be attending an auction in a few weeks time for a particular house we want. We’ve started pilfering boxes again from the local bottle shop (and getting similar looks as we cart them home) to begin packing up our substantial book collection. The inner detoxer in me loves all this; there’s nothing I enjoy more than a good cull of one’s crappier possessions. The local thrift trucks have begun coming to take away the excess.
There was a period beginning in October 2000 and ending in November 2001 when we moved three times. First from Sydney to Melbourne’s CBD, when we spent four hideously misguided weeks in an apartment located right behind one of city’s most popular Irish pubs. In the end we broke lease and committed all sorts of desperate acts to get out of there. We then moved to East Brunswick, right on Merri Creek, which was very pretty but also Party Central for the local university/high school kids. It was also Yappy Dog Central, and there were several times I contemplated committing grievous harm to one particular Maltese over the back fence. As we moved from one place to another we literally just dumped our stuff in boxes; reefed the clothes off the rods, complete with their hangers and tossed them in. Many boxes hadn’t even been unpacked from the previous journey.
I thought this time would be different – but it’s not. Sure, I still pack the books in nice and tight (Adam’s big A4 fantasy books go in stacked on one side of the box; my more ‘literary’ A5 sized ones snuggle in two-a-side next to that – I’ve got it down to an art now) but everything else – meh. Whatever. Points a lot to how I do (not) value material possessions. So long as we’ve got each other and we land safely, I don’t care.
All said, thought, in our heads we may be already gone, but my heart lugs behind. In the quieter moments I remember that, after all, my children were conceived here and brought across the threshold with all the care and comforts these four walls offer. A house is a house is a house, yet this is still our home.
For the time being.
I don’t know if that makes me a traitor; to betray the legacy of family this place has heretofore provided…
[…but damn you should see the plaster cornices of the place we’ve got an eye on.
To die for.]
