I have prepared myself all summer for the inevitable changeover for my job. See, this big, global company bought out the much smaller company I work for and we’ve been tentatively fed delicious morsels of “what’s gonna happen!” all year round. Now, we’re starting to get into the nitty-gritty, which means a lot of last minute adjustments and a lack of sleep. This also means my want to rant about such things is high, but the logical nature of how much people will want to read me bitching makes me face the fact that I’d do better to not write about it just yet.
That complicated sentence means this: I’m busy with work crap, so I’m sorry I’m not writing massively witty posts and being cool and stuff.
Instead of being cool and stuff, I’ve spent my time at the un-cool job, and trying to fit my family and their events into that. So, Sunday, I spent the day celebrating my cousin’s daughter’s 1st birthday with all the family. This was great times, as always. The trip home? Not so much.
I grew up in the middle of nowhere. I lived next to cows. No, really. I did. I frequently tell people that. I moo-ed to them. They moo-ed back. They would rush the fence between my yard and my great-uncles and demand fresh cut grass with their moos. I would comply. And, moo back. I love animals. What else can I say?
I loved where I grew up. I know my father put a ton of work into that place. I loved the yard. We didn’t have quite an acre, but I loved it. I used to hit baseballs, softballs, golfballs out of it. I remember running after my dog in it. Over the years we had a garden, a boat (fun thing that it was), swings, and free space to roam in it. One of my favorite things to do after school was to spend some time just wandering the small yard, thinking. I’d walk around the little pines, talking to myself (cause we all do that–just admit it). I’d spend so much time just loving being free with myself.
After we remodeled, I always thought the place was so big. It was open, new, fresh. It was fun. I would spend my days off from school with a radio blaring, maybe playing a cd, and dancing around my living room because there was no-one to watch me be a fool. I loved looking out the kitchen window over our sink and watching the birds feed at the bird feeders. I loved everything about that place.
My parents separated when I was 17. I hadn’t graduated high school yet. I was in my senior year. My mom moved out; I tried to deal with it. I had people running their mouth about me this year of my life, and basically ruined the entire experience of high school for me. It took me a good four years to deal with the break-up of my family.
Due to this break-up and a bunch of other stuff, the house I spent 18 years of my life in was ripped from me. My dad moved away.I lived with my mom in the college town I went to school in. Who knows who took over it? The few times I made it down to the town post my dad moving out didn’t show much degradation to the property.
Then, I went by it Sunday. Okay, look. I’ll admit. This is probably one of the most honest of the journal entries you’d ever get from me. I’m nostalgic. To a fault. And, driving by my childhood home? It was as if someone stabbed me. I wish I could say that’s an exaggeration. But, it’s not.
I don’t know how many other people suffer what I did this weekend. I know things don’t stay the same. That’s a fact of life. I know stupid people do stupid things. But, I drove by this home that helped formed me, the home that still comes to me in my dreams and represents, probably, the most stable of places for me, and see a condemned notice hung on a window facing off the patio that hosted the majority of my graduation party? I lost it. I’m still losing it, and I’m mad. I’m not just sad. I’m mad. Why take a house to destroy it? Why do that? Why do people turn a property that, to be honest, wasn’t amazing, but was a pretty good piece to have and turn it to shit? It looked like a jungle ate it? Damnit, that was my house!?
I got over it a little bit, like I always do. I realize extending energy into feeling sad over that isn’t healthy. But, to be honest, to look at it just made me look at my life and family. My family broke up. I still have good relationships with people, but it broke up. This home we created as a home? It’s now broken up too. I feel bad for it. It’s a good plot of land. It was a good house. It raised a family. It saw the extension of a family. So many of the memories and experiences that formulated the person even typing these letters came from what happened there. And to see it like that?
I wish I had money. I wish I had won the damn lottery. I would buy that place. Not because it’s awesome/amazing/great investment. But, because, damn it all, it’s my home. The only damn one I think I’ll have.