Selling My House

In order to put my house up for sale, I had to put most everything else aside to focus, focus, and focus on a job that was too big for me. No time for blogging. No time for scrapbooking.

My brother helped me. My sisters helped me. My nephew. My sister-in-law. Even my friend Dale who had just gone through the horrors of moving herself. These people all volunteered to put in time they could have spent a thousand different ways. I had not wanted to impose. I'd been too afraid to ask.

Once I decided to move, the work didn't stop. I cleaned, polished and tossed things away. I got things repaired that should have been repaired years ago. Twenty years, almost twenty-one years is a long time to live in one place, a long time to accumulate junk. One day I saw the futility of paying for a place to house all my belongings.

When's the last time you moved? No matter how positive you are, the amount of work required never seems to stop. "We" filled up my brother's giant trailer---his Model A trailer---three times. By "we," I mostly mean "they" because my back and most of my body gave out at the beginning of packing. I've hobbled and limped since March 2010. There must be 100 boxes that over-fill a rented storage space and my sister's garage.

My last night on Castlebrook was spent on the floor; I'd sold my beautiful futon to my friend across the street. I traded the discomfort of the floor for the peace of mind that the futon was gone. I was desperate to close up the house.

Despite all the help, the last day of packing and cleaning was a horror show. I was on my own, still loading up my car at 6:30 p.m. I had to drive over the Altamont while it was still light; I cannot see well in the dark. I dragged my ass, back and forth to the car, adding one more thing, leaving room for my dog. Eventually, I was stuffing things into the car and slamming the door before a slipper or a dog dish fell out.

What was remarkable about moving, was that after all the trips to the car, all the exhaustion, all the help, the house was still full of stuff at 6:30 p.m. I left the house in the best shape possible, but not until I threw valuable belongings into the trash that wouldn't fit in my car.

I didn't mind driving in weekend traffic over the hill when I was finally released from the house that was too big with a tax bill that was too big. But what I lost finally hit me as I drove my Rav4 over the pass, and I burst into years. That house was a good house. But I'd spent too many of my hours in that house SICK. It's not the fault of my four bedroom walls that I stared at them way too often. It was a good room, in a good house.

I'd found the Castlebrook house in a nice neighborhood, near the best public schools. If truth be told, I'd stayed in the Castlebrook house to provide consistency for my son. I wanted my only child to keep the same friends, to have a sense of belonging that our small family might now give him.

I recently reminded my son that he once said, "If you sell the house, I'll never speak to you again." He merely chuckled. I wonder how different things might have been if I'd sold the house years ago and we'd moved away then. His "loyal" friends are doing little with their lives. I probbably should have listened to myself sooner, but moving is a HUGE job. And the time is right now.

I look forward to blogging about the building of my new house, step by step, that should be ready to live in by October or November.