I was in sixth grade when I discovered my love of pouring over floorplans and listing sheets. A center entrance colonial was the next step up from the small Georgian I grew up in, and my parents talked about moving for years. I was excited over the prospect of moving into something larger – with a family room ! – but leaving my neighborhood, my friends, my school, my LIFE – uh, not so appealing. When they returned from seeing houses, I’d quiz them over and over about layouts, features and school districts. Never moving, they most certainly drove more than one good real estate agent insane.
Time and memories went by and suddenly grown, I was able to enjoy a job in the one industry that really excited me…Real Estate! How lucky was I? While my parents held down the family home, I moved, married and owned four completely different homes while raising a family of my own – with a whole new set of memories. Eventually, as is the way with life, Dad died – and he chose to die in his home, surrounded by its warmth, happy memories and family. Mom eventually sold the home to a neighbor’s daughter, fully knowing that they would tear it down and build a McMansion on the generous lot. How would that feel, I wondered? The family home gone? The memories flooded back – our first puppy, giggling with my sisters in tents in the backyard, ice skating on the frozen flooded lawn, squeaky stairs at Christmas time, helping my Dad plant the lilac bushes along the fence, baking cookies and after-school tea-time with Mom, first kisses in the driveway, my own kids letting the family dog lick the yogurt container after lunch. All centered around the home… the foundation that built me, sheltered me, molded me and prepared me for life. No one can ever take that away.