I sometimes get attached to other people’s houses. Sometimes people I don’t even know. When I was a kid we drove an hour every Sunday to see my grandparents; I spent the time both ways waiting to see certain houses. This wasn’t an early appreciation for architecture; the main attraction was two stories, since we lived in a one-story house. Living in Los Angeles, I had my favorites too, especially one gi-normous Spanish house on Sunset Boulevard in Beverly Hills.
Here in Carmel, lots of my favorite houses have names—typically they’re whimsical, clever and cutesy. Today I went by one with a less creative name—that still pulls me the most.
I don’t know Svend but obviously it’s his house since his name is on that amazing oak tree out front. (sorry for the lack of focus)
In the years before Svend nailed his name on that branch, something else was attached to it, almost as permanently as the sign—-a little boy.
My little boy.
He was 6 when we moved in. He had no friends in the neighborhood, there was no yard or place to play, but I figured we’d be fine renting it for a few months while we got settled in a new community. We didn’t even have our own furniture; and though I tried to make it feel like home, I’m not sure I ever did.
The landlord turned out to be a lot more cooperative than my own body. Pretty soon I had cancer, and we ended up staying for 3 years. And while Daniel spent a lot of time in that tree, I spent a lot more time inside that house than I ever imagined.
It wasn’t just that cancer was something foreign in my body; something always felt foreign about that house. And though the owners offered us a great price to buy it, we passed—it was a great deal financially— not so great emotionally. Since then we moved twice, into houses without any baggage.
When I see Svend’s house now, it’s just that: Svend’s house. I left nothing of myself there, I think my memories moved out with the moving van.
When I think about the many places I’ve lived in, I feel a strong attachment to surprisingly few—almost less than those houses I loved without ever setting foot in them. I sometimes wonder how other people feel about houses left behind, and how to describe that intangible something that makes you feel you belong. I’ve never named a house, but the other day I saw one whose owners have the right idea:
Josey says
Very nice story Darryle,…that I can relate too. I’ve always felt that other houses I’ve lived in were just part of a journey to get me closer to home.
marlawentner says
You are in one of the best places (besides England) to look at the names people give their homes. I feel the same as you do. I have never been attached to a house per se. I am very attached to different areas, but where I live or stay in that area doesn’t matter that much to me. Home really is inside of you anyway, don’t you think?
Darryle Pollack says
Love how you put it into words–and think that’s what houses are for me, too–just part of the journey to get me closer to home. Thanks so much, Josey.
Darryle Pollack says
Absolutely, this area is filled with names— I’ve been collecting them–could make a whole blog /or book about them. (but I won’t)
I know people who’ve lived in the same house for so many years, and sometimes I envy that attachment. I’m with you and Josey, that houses I’ve lived in are just part of the journey to get me home—which is inside each of us.
Karianna says
I have an unfortunately opposite outlook – I get very attached to nearly every place where I’ve lived! I guess I am a nostalgic sap, but for some locations I can’t even imagine someone else in “my” place. I was in my childhood home for 19 years before the whole college thing, and thereafter the locations mesh with important life events (where I was engaged, where I gave birth, etc.)
In this vein, our current house is across the street from the son who grew up in what is now my house. His parents were the original owners of the house. And so, it feels odd knowing that I’m in “his” house. I’m almost afraid to make any modifications to it because I know how I’d feel if anyone dare touched my childhood home (which fortunately my parents still live in.)
Meanwhile, my oldest son has lived in five different locations, and my youngest has lived in two – there is no one place where they can say they “grew up” – and that makes me a bit sad. And yet, perhaps my kids will be more adaptive to change than I am! 🙂
Darryle Pollack says
I’ve never had a similar situation, but totally get that feeling you have now— living in a house that feels like someone else’s and not wanting to change it. And like you, I still have sentimental attachment to my childhood home. I knocked on the door years ago when I was in Miami so my kids could see where I grew up, and it really threw me to see the changes inside—also comforting to see things they had NOT changed.
Like your kids, mine have moved around so much, I’ve always felt a little sad too, that they won’t have any permanent place that meant “home.” On the other hand, I think moving around is much more common now— I’m happy to let you know my kids are now grown up and very adaptable to change—which I think is one of the most useful qualities to have in life. So maybe all the change was a good thing!
Debbie Moore says
My parents’ last house was in our family for forty years. When my sisters and I finally talked my brother into getting out of the decayed area of town, we were so relieved. My brother, however, cried as we posed on the big porch for one last picture.
Darryle Pollack says
Isn’t it surprising how deep those roots can go? Or maybe not so surprising—40 years is a long time. Thanks so much for sharing.
KellyO says
Just came across this post – it’s wonderful. I grew up in the same house my whole life and, since getting married in 1996, I have lived in 10 houses. My husband died of cancer in 2007 and, ironically, I haven’t moved since he died. Now comes the difficult task of moving to a different state where I know no one, my children don’t know anyone, and I’m scared to death because of the fear I have of having no roots for my children. I feel so much better after reading your post, thank you!
Darryle Pollack says
Thanks so much for sharing, Kelly—and so sorry to hear about your husband. I think our world has changed so much that we learn to make our own roots—and they’re in the people, not the places that surround us. I’m sure you and your children will experience that as you adjust to a new home–good luck with the move.