When we were handed the keys to our house, it still didn't seem like our home. I suppose I felt a sense of ownership, and I had pride in myself for being able to purchase this house, but it still felt temporary. Since June, 1999–the ten years previous to when we came to live here–I had moved exactly ten times. I suppose all that moving around made me feel like the ground was always moving under my feet; that I always had a temporary feeling about where I lived. The longest I had lived anywhere since my parents sold the house I grew up in, was two years. I have now passed that mark by 39 days.
It only took a few days to feel at home: I had memorized what every light switch did, and could find them in the dark; all of our clothes were organized in the closets, and then re-organized for efficiency; and the bathroom felt like my own, rather than the just-moved-in feeling you get about sharing the previous tenants' bacteria.
I got to know our retired neighbors who live to the South and really got to know the ones only six feet to our North. Eventually we got to know our neighbors across the street and shared our garden's vegetables with the neighbors across our back fence. But, I still didn't feel like I was at home until a few months later.
It was just starting to get cold out, and I was seeing less and less daylight outside of work. I came home after a particularly stressful day working in The Midway, and as I pulled into the garage the sun was setting in my rear-view mirror. As I shut off the engine, I exhaled deeply, glad to be home. As I walked out of the garage, before I pressed the button to shut the door, I caught a reflection off the taillight of my Honda and I stopped to look at our two cars parked in our garage. "Our garage," I thought. I then turned around to look at our lawn, (covered with the fallen leaves of our tree) and the rest of our neighborhood, before taking a moment to look at our home. All the stresses of the day melted off me as I walked in the front door, greeted by our ever-excited puppy, and I saw Jenne curled up on the couch in our living room. Our living room.
That was the day–the moment–I really understood what made the difference between a house and a home. After that day, going to my crappy job was a little bit easier and sitting through night-classes with obnoxious classmates was okay. Every day, as long as we decide to live here, I get to pull into our garage and walk into the warmth of my home: being greeted by scratchy paws and wet licks, while Jenne is completely comfortable anywhere she is inside these walls. I no longer have to worry about moving at the end of the year, or whether the landlord will keep the house in working order. I no longer have to wonder about what my future holds or where I can keep my family safe.
Over the past 768 days, owning our home became a bit mundane. I swore when I had to snow blow the driveway twice in a weekend, I complained about the constant weeding our gardens needed, we got into an argument with one of our neighbors... Homeownership was no longer exciting or fun. But, the mundane day-to-day experience of homeownership was a good thing: the mortgage and bills were paid on time, nothing broke or fell apart and the overall feeling of our home was safety and warmth. Still, I eventually stopped marveling in how unique and amazing it is in our world to own a home.
As we started filling our home with new things, and as our family grew by one member, I stopped feeling amazed and sometimes felt like our home wasn't enough. Occasionally I looked to other houses–bigger houses–for what our ideal home would be. I suppose living here started feeling temporary again, or maybe I started wanting more, now that I had a taste of what owning a home could be.
As we started filling our home with new things, and as our family grew by one member, I stopped feeling amazed and sometimes felt like our home wasn't enough. Occasionally I looked to other houses–bigger houses–for what our ideal home would be. I suppose living here started feeling temporary again, or maybe I started wanting more, now that I had a taste of what owning a home could be.
Until two nights ago.
As everyone was heading off to bed, I took out the garbage and recycling, and started wheeling it out to the curb. It was what I do, and have done, every Wednesday night for two years. It was a mundane act of homeownership.
As I turned my back to the sunset and started back up the driveway, I caught a reflection off of the taillight of the Honda in our garage. Our garage. With our cars in it. Before I pressed the button to close the garage door, I stood in the driveway and turned to look at our neighborhood; to look at our neighbors' homes, and to really feel how great the past two years have been. I remembered, again, why I do the work I do, and reminded myself that there are bigger houses out there–there may even be better houses out there. But we don't want to live in a bigger, better house. We want to live in our home.
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