I tell people often...being a realtor is not just a job. I find myself invested and involved with buyers and sellers in their most personal, most joyous, and most difficult times. They tell me secrets. They tell me fears. They look for counsel. One told me once she believed God had sent me into her life. But never in the eight years I have devoted to this profession has the investiture been more profound, more personal than this week. For this week, I close on the "house that built me." With a nod to Miranda Lambert, lyrics have rarely spoken to me as did hers more times than once through this process.
There's a common and symbolic thread running through the history of this house that built me.... built by a man with three daughters, sold to a man with three daughters, and now, decades later, selling again.... to one of three sisters. It feels.... as it should be. And yet.....
Cleaning out this house of ours over the past weeks brought three daughters to laughter and brought us to tears. Most importantly, it brought us home together....one more time. Together, we laughed when Daddy failed to understand why none of the three of us wanted his beautifully framed Water Wastewater treatment certification...whaaaat... I suppose part of his Master's Degree work at the University of North Carolina (perhaps a little ironic with the s@#* currently enveloping UNC).
We found laughter and a bit of poignancy when Daddy said, " If you don't want it, throw it away, I won't question," only for his three girls to look out the carport window and see our father peering over the rim of the giant thrice filled and emptied dumpster hauled in to hold it all, shaking his head in disbelief, occasionally actually reaching in to pull something out.
Diane and I had to laugh when we each discovered our own reasonable....not perfect but reasonable...baby books, then to find that in Donna The Favorite Child's book, there was nothing except...are you ready.... vaccination records. Perhaps she was adopted from some illness stricken third world country, a feared carrier of some dreaded disease, and we simply never knew!!!
As usual, the teasing of my baby sister came right back to me when shortly we would find a letter penned by my favorite professor at Clemson to my parents. I couldn't wait to read the wonderful ode to their eldest daughter Professor Berger must have written to Mother and Daddy. I was totally disillusioned to find that he had written to advise he could only wish every student he taught were as charming and intelligent as....wait for it.....Diane. How could this be? Both Donna and Diane found to my way of thinking much too much humor in that silly letter.
We tried in vain to imagine locations or destinations for the seemingly endless oil portraits of the three of us...images of three daughters together and of each of us alone. There was just no way, for our mom used portraits of her children the way most people use paint... some will no doubt say I may have inherited at least a bit of that gene. Sadly, much of this art landed in the afore referenced dumpster.
We were reminded this house wasn't perfect. This home wasn't perfect. But from it a family grew...a family of three sisters....that common, symbolic thread of this home. Through holidays and birthdays and weddings and births of grandchildren and passing of loved ones, this house was our rock. In it we experienced the circle of life. The address began as 607 S. Hickory and somewhere along the way became 703 S. Hickory.....Diane says that makes all this cleaning and purging and selling easier for her. Somehow not for me, for it's the same brick and mortar that kept us safe and warm and drew us in. It is...the house that built us.
To our buyers, we now entrust to you and to your precious family a jewel...a piece of our history.... a piece of who we are.
Outside this house, we leave with you the stunning lot that to this day takes my breath away. The beautiful pond lined setting that hosted wedding receptions and cook-outs with equal grace will give you moments to remember....I promise.
We leave to you the pears and dogwood, the gorgeous azaleas of Hickory Street springs. It is fitting I think that soon a swingset will dot that lovely landscape as well, and a child (believe it or not, a boy) will run and romp and revel in the wonderful play space.
We leave the sprawling private lawn where we as teens worked on our tans and where particularly Donna and Mother shared secrets and stories as they soaked up the sun.
We leave with you the grave of our precious Scamp, the Setter who we three would agree was our best growing up dog ever. If you listen closely, you may hear his bark at times in the quiet winds.
We leave with you the wonderful interior spaces and places we loved....the kitchen where we always seemed to gather, the dining room where we shared those meals Mother loved to plan and prepare, the living room that Santa always found...even when three girls were long since grown and gone from home. You'll put your own personality into those rooms. They will become yours....hallowed halls and nooks and crannies of the memories your family will make.
I leave my bedroom swing especially to your precious Connor. In it, I laughed and cried and read and prayed through the perils of teenagerdom. I hope in it, he swings away from all the cares of school and grades and occasionally mean children and frequent growing up stresses and toward nights of peaceful sleep and mornings of new dawn as he begins to figure out life as I did.
From this house, I absorbed lessons of strength (many would say stubbornness) from my mother. She taught and I learned to value family above all other possessions. In this house and from my father, I learned about integrity, faith, accomplishment, becoming all I can be.
The most enduring possession from the house that built me I keep with me always and everywhere. It's the singularly important relationships with my sisters. In good times and sad, when I'm at my best or worst, they were and are with me without judgement. Yes, that thread...that common thread in the history of the house that built me...that built three sisters...that's the one I'll treasure most.
Yesterday, we closed. This morning, I awoke to chirping birds, the promise of a new day, another client, another home to represent, and a repeating refrain that I just can't shake... "Won't take nothing but a memory from the house that built me."
I know they say
You can't go home again,
But I had to come back one last time
You may not know me from Adam
But those handprints on the front steps are mine.
Up those stairs in the little back bedrooms,
We did homework and learned who we are.
And I'll bet you didn't know
That under that live oak
Our favorite dog is buried in the yard.
When I touch this place or feel it,
The brokenness inside me might start healing.
Out here it's like I'm someone else
But in this house I find myself.
You leave home, you move on, and do the best you can.
At times I'm lost in this old world; I forget who I am.
Now, I won't take nothing but a memory from the house that built me.
