It wasn’t unexpected.
It was going to happen one day. Some day. The handwriting’s been on the wall for a while.
When did my stepmother first mention she wanted to sell their house? The house that she and my father shared? A year ago?
It wasn’t the house I grew up in. But it was the only house I’ve known as home. It was the home my father designed and built in some part. It was my dad’s home and therefore also mine — in its way.
My father is no longer there. He is no longer here.
Rationally, I understand why my stepmother would sell the house. The reasons are numerous and sound.
What the mind knows however is not always so easy for the emotional self to grasp and accept. It takes time. It’s a process.
It was inevitable, the selling of my dad’s house, well, their house technically.
But it’s his presence that’s there, that reigns, from its design to the yard that he created — beautiful grasses and trees and shrubs and cacti — all from a blank canvas of dry hard southern Utah desert dirt.
My dad was — is — a genius craftsman especially with land.
Yesterday’s email from my stepmother informed me that it looks like the sale is going through with a closing date next month.
On one level, the emotional level, that means the end draws near. The house / home that’s been in my family — dad and to a certain extent my stepmother and their dog being my family — is soon to leave the family.
For good. For ever.
I’ve got stuff to process.
It also means I need to go there and get my things stored in their garage. For the past 10 years. Yikes. It’s really been that long?!
That stuff needs to get cleared out. It’s needed to be cleared outta there for a while now. Fortunately — and I do mean fortunately! — I scaled down what feels like, to this minimalist, a mountain of stuff into a hill during my last stay in Utah in 2013.
I was brutal in what I saved and what got donated to the thrift store. I lightened the load considerably.
Still. It’s a load.
An important and precious load consisting primarily of furniture my dad crafted (he embraced custom woodcrafting as a working trade later in life), family photos, my high school annuals, writings, significant stuffed animals and other treasured items from my past..
Assorted kitchen items — i.e., a fire-engine red Kitchen Aid mixer and a complete set of basic dishes from I believe Japan from my mother — are in the mix too.
All that stuff I want to keep with no place to go, most of it, save into another storage unit.
Because no way can my current space — a rental mobile home — accommodate even 1/16th of that load!!
The stuff you own owns you.
As a nomad who’s moved some 54 times, give or take, I know the truth of that better than anyone!
I like simple. I like minimal. I like having just what I need and not a LOT more.
I’m neither a packrat nor a clutter collector. On the contrary, I have problem KEEPING things! Moving frequently — by yourself and ONLY with what you can get in your car — will teach a girl that!
I’m rambling. Point is, yesterday’s email from my stepmother stirred up a LOT of emotions.
Concerns.
Worries.
Thoughts.
I slept {this much}. Wasn’t until 6 a.m. when I fell into a light slumber punctuated by restlessness and wake-ups.
“Rummy” does describe my state today. 🙂
Ditto “long night ahead.” I work from 7 p.m. to past midnight. I need to be awake and alert. Could be a challenge.
Missed sleep. No sleep. Leaves me feeling like I’m traipsing through mud. I’m 58. Not 22. We old-timers can’t handle all-nighters, neither do we bounce back quickly.
So there’s that.
And there’s SOO much more happening beneath the surface. So much stirred up by a single email that announces: It looks like the sale of the house is going through. With a closing date only weeks away.
The house of my dad. His house, well, their house technically. His home.
It is no wonder that, despite valiant efforts with every passing hour, I couldn’t sleep. Not a wink. No wonder at all.
Allelujah, Arizona! 