I’ve lived in a lot of houses and apartments as an adult. My sister counts seven moves in one three-year period. That’s when she resigned as moving helper.
Last month, I moved into a new house, a house we built, a house without stories. And that’s the strange part. We are living with a very clean and blank canvas.
One of my homes was 100 plus years old. No horror stories, but it pulsated with energy.
I’d sit next to the fireplace, near the beautiful French doors we’d found hidden in the basement. And I’d wonder. How many arguments happened in this room? Did the housewife ever dream of running off to the city? Did they cry in front of the fireplace when friends died? Did they have parties? Did they almost lose the house during the Depression? Did they watch us from the spirit world, making sure we loved their home?
Sometimes I felt mood shifts throughout the day. I sensed their company by the fireplace, their solace during our struggles. The couple’s energy and presence never left.
So now we have the new canvas, without stories or wonder.
Yesterday the inspector told us the vinyl siding on the house’s east side has slight waves in it. This, he said, is to be expected because of Minnesota weather.
The tidbit made me feel light. We had a flaw. We had a teeny-weeny story – with more to come.