The flower boxes were the hardest part. I underestimated the difficulty in attaching flimsy wood boxes to a concrete wall beneath the front window. After a few failed attempts, I secured the boxes, although my efforts to create a cozy English cottage with a 1970s ranch-style house left a lot to the imagination. That’s where the white lattice came in, but I think the neighbors always knew there was a garage lurking behind it. The green linoleum floors and popcorn ceiling were ambience detractors, I know, yet—almost two decades, two kids, and two other houses later—our first home is the one that I think of most often.
Mike’s bachelor pad lived up to its label. Sparsely decorated rooms with empty-shelved avocado-colored appliances hinted at the homeowner’s independent lifestyle. As newlyweds, we discovered the art of nesting—with a little help from Home Depot.
Weekends were dedicated to home renovation projects, some successful, some not so. Spray-painting a refrigerator is not as easy as it looks, even while wearing a mask. Mike still tells the story of coming home one day to find his new bride in a sea of white spray-paint haze. He admitted, however, that knocking out the wall between the dining and living room was a good idea, even if he wasn’t consulted about it beforehand. He was not one to quibble when his father-in-law and wife had matching sledgehammers.
Our furniture was Early American Hand-Me-Down. My mom’s old coffee table. His great aunt’s sofa. The garage sale bookcase. Our eclectic pieces somehow blended once we painted the walls and carpeted the floor. Soon our home was graced with high chairs, playpens, and changing tables when our son and daughter entered into the picture, which quickly depleted all discretionary decorating funds. Diapers won out over a new bedroom suite.
A sense of identity is fully realized in a person’s home. We outgrew the space, but not our emotional attachment to it as the bearer of “firsts.” This was the place where we became grown-ups and held our first mortgage. This was the first refuge we’d retreat to after a long day’s work, plopping down on the old sofa to watch a rented movie. This was the home where both our children took their first steps down the hallway to welcoming, over-animated parents. This was the backyard where Griffin broke his arm after falling from his play fort. This was the home of our first Christmas, first anniversary, first burnt meal as a married couple.
Several years ago, my parents surprised my three sisters and me by taking us to lunch and then informing us they had plans for a very special dessert. They drove us to the home we grew up in as a young family. The two-story split-level was for sale and Mom had a key since she was a Realtor. We walked around the empty house for half an hour, recounting funny family stories that every room held. Dad started to share another story, then caught himself misting up. I so get that now.
Every once in a while, Mike and I find ourselves, kids in tow, in the car driving no place in particular and ending up in front of the home we once filled with hope, love, worry, and dreams. We drive by at a steady pace so not to be too obvious to the current homeowners. The flower boxes are still there. So is the latticed garage.
And, for an all-too-brief moment, so are we.