Goodbye, My Childhood Home

At the front door of the house, beneath the soft glow of the porch light, my first boyfriend John gave me my first kiss. My grandfather had his wedding reception here, and my cousin Kristen her bridal shower. The house has hosted its share of slumber parties, birthday parties, and holiday parties. So many happy memories are sheltered here, so many sad memories, too. It was nearly four years ago that my dad passed away here, suddenly, and without warning.


But it's time to say good-bye, now. In a few days, we'll pick up the U-Haul and load it up with the bulk of my mom's remaining furniture and take it to The Box House. After months of gypsy-style living and waiting for repairs to be completed at the new place, after weeks of lugging our computers back and forth so we could work on the new place and still get work-work done, after endless trekking back and forth across the snow-laden suburbs, we're finally doing it. We're settling into our new home.

I've enjoyed a rare privilege that not many adult children have. Last October, when Ted and I rented out our condo, we put the bulk of our possessions in storage and moved to my mom's house to wait until close, and stayed longer as we decided to get some crucial work done on The Box House before moving in. For the last four months, I've lived at my childhood home.

As I write this, I'm sitting at my desk, looking out my window on a street scene that hasn't changed much in the thirty-one years my mom has owned the house. Since being here again, I've found myself falling into many of the same routines as before: shopping at Stratford Square Mall, driving up to Portillos for a hot dog, walking the dog to the park--it's a different dog, sure, but the route is the same. Many of the neighbors who were here three decades ago are still here, and I'll wave and exchange hellos as before. "Yes, we're getting ready to pull out. Any day now, yes."

Our beloved Harley, who died last year at the ripe old age of 12.
He's posing most reluctantly for Mom's annual humiliate-the-dog picture.

Some things about my hometown I said good-bye to long ago. Wags is gone; the 24-hour diner with its bottomless cup of coffee was our after-work hangout in high school. The movie theatre I worked concession at has been gutted, expanded, and now serves Starbucks Coffee. It looks nothing like it did back in the day. And while I see an occasional almost-familiar face, softened somewhat by the years, most of the people I grew up with and hung out with are scattered across the globe.

Over the years, I've left and returned and left again, but part of me is feeling homesick at the thought of leaving for good. Whenever I left before, I always had the stability and reassurance that my parents would always be here, that their home would perfectly preserve every memory I had of growing up. And if I'm feeling troubled at the thought of other people living here instead of our family, how must my mom feel?

She has lived in this house exactly half of her life. Of course, she didn't plan on staying here forever. When my dad retired, the two of them were going to sell the house and move somewhere warmer. Maybe Florida, where my brother lived. Maybe somewhere else. Wherever it was, it was going to be bright and sunny.

But life can throw you a curve ball and change your plans forever. I know my mom never pictured getting a two-flat with her daughter and staying in the cold Chicago suburbs. She was supposed to enjoy her golden years with my dad, not argue with me about what color to paint the stairwell. She was supposed to live in some low-maintenance condo, clean and new, not in an 80+ year old brick house that will need work over the next year or two to make it into her dream home.

What I don't think my mom realizes, though, is just how much Ted and I enjoy having her around. We've actually liked hanging out with her these last months. My mom is one of the sweetest, kindest, funniest women around, with a heart as big as all that. I like having her in my day-to-day life again, and I love how she and Ted have formed a real bond.

Ted and Mom

When plans change so abruptly, it's hard to let go, make a leap of faith and follow them. My mom and I each feel, in some way, that we're leaving my dad behind in this house. I loved him so much, and I still miss him terribly. I worry that memories might fade if not bolstered by and surrounded by the physical things, the places, and the people that helped create those memories.

But I'm slowly coming to realize that a home is not the physical building itself, it's the people we love. I will remember my father whenever I see my brother use one of his gestures or my niece one of his phrases. Or when I see my aunt and uncle smile--they look so much like my dad it aches, sometimes--I can hear my dad's laugh again. Those are the kinds of things that will go with us to the new place, and we'll build a new home.

Dad and Me, 1970. It's one of my favorite pictures of the two of us.

We'll encounter difficulties long term, I know that. Perhaps by having our own units in The Box House my mom and I will still be able to maintain a good level of independence--and sanity. We have our own interests, our own hobbies, our own lives. When we don't feel like visiting, we could in theory go days without having to see each other. But it will be good to know that whenever one of us needs the other, it's only a short flight of stairs to the other apartment.

While we'll continue to come back to the house I grew up in each week until it actually sells, after this weekend it will no longer really be our home. Our future is in a new home, now, and I think it's looking pretty darn sunny.