Is it Weird to Love a House?

I first saw the house in 1992.  Not even knowing what it looked like on the inside, I knew I was in love.  It was a two story brick house that was built in the early 1930's.  It sat upon a hill with just the right number of shade trees to make it look inviting.  It had four large french windows with eight panes on each side, all trimmed in white.  Above the quaintly rounded front door there was the sweetest little balcony with a black iron fence. Across the front, just enough lush green ivy was growing to give it charm.

It wasn't until April 2001 that I was fortunate enough to move into it.  I can't explain the feeling I had every morning when I would wake up and walk through the house, realizing it wasn't a dream and that I was actually living there.   We called it home for almost twelve happy years.

We have outgrown our big house on the hill.  We now have four beautiful grandchildren and a big, fluffy galoot of a Goldendoodle.  We have found a perfect space on 2.5 acres complete with a mini orchard.  It is truly a lovely place to live.

Tomorrow is the day we hand my dream house over to a new family.  I can only hope that they love it as much as I do.

Selling the house I love has made me realize that even though I thought it was mine, it really never was.  I just borrowed it for a while.  Hopefully, through the years as the house is passed from family to family, all of it's occupants will feel how special of a place it is.  

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