1895: two years

If I had a dollar for every time I’ve written an entry with “X years” as the title …

Two years ago, when I moved into the basement apartment of this house, I knew I wasn’t going to live down there for more than a year, and I certainly didn’t know that meant I was going to move upstairs into the house.

It was good to roll into the start of another year here without an immediate question of whether we were staying. Despite the freakish number of times I’ve moved since 2004 (including going briefly going back to my mom’s house twice), I really don’t like moving all the time. Typically, I sketch out how I want a room to look and, once I get it there, I don’t want to change it. My Chimborazo bedroom reached perfection; additionally, it was the first time in my stretch of moving that I fully unpacked. I have at least two blatantly unfinished projects in our spare room because I haven’t fully unpacked here.

This is the house I share with my wife, but it doesn’t have a feeling of home like Chimborazo. It’s just little things, like the lack of closet space, dealing with an apartment underneath us, the street parking being less than ideal, I could go on. This is also coming from someone who was nitpicky about the house he grew up in to the point that Chimborazo felt more like home than home. I have a criteria for what I want in a place to live, and that house in Richmond essentially hit all but two.

Here’s a sample of my first-world whining:

  1. I want to be able to wash my car in the yard/driveway
  2. I want hardwood floors
  3. I want brick somewhere, preferably exposed in at least one interior room
  4. I want at least two stories
  5. Most importantly, I want it to be a hub of activity

Actually, No. 5 is all I want.

I love being the default location if someone doesn’t know what to do. I love hosing. I love throwing parties. I blame that being the state of my house growing up. Even now, it’s rare that at least one person doesn’t show up at my mom’s house just to hang out for a little while.

I’m certain we’ll take a serious look at a new place within the next year. As I look at my stuff, especially my hundreds of pounds of books, I really hope it’s an easy move. (Due to the people who previously lived here delaying their move out, I lost every opportunity to have help with moving upstairs. Last Sept. 30 ranks as one of the worst days of my life. But I digress.)

Wherever we end up, I sincerely hope I get to dust off the welcome mat.

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