I would be lying if I told you that I wasn’t unfathomably relieved when the word came late today that our house in Dallas had finally and irrevocably been sold to its new owners. We’ve been paying that mortgage for five months now, for a vacant house, and were getting into a real financial bind over it. If you had told us six months ago, when we put the place on the market, that we would eventually accept the price we did for it, we wouldn’t have believed you. Times are hard. Houses aren’t really moving. We were happy to get an offer that didn’t cause us to lose too much money. But we did lose money on the deal, more than I can bear to think about. I was talking to a friend at work about this deal, and he said, in effect, “Look, you sold your house in the Great Recession after only six months on the market, and you’re not taking a big loss on it. You should be grateful. Trust me on this.” OK, I’ll trust you on that. I’m just glad that I’m not in debt anymore. I am so glad! And I’m glad that I won’t have to try to oversee renting our house from halfway across the country. If we hadn’t made a deal on it, we would have had no choice but to have gone the rental route, because we literally couldn’t have afforded to sell it for less than we did. Anyway, that’s all over and done with. Deo gratias. It’s just business.
Our real estate agent, in breaking the news to us, said, “You can look in your rear view mirror and finally say goodbye to Dallas.” Yeah, I guess we can.
And despite the overwhelming sense of relief, that makes me real sad, I have to say. I wrote before about how much that little house in Junius Heights meant to me and my family. Excerpt:
As our days here dwindle, I’ve spent these cold December mornings drinking coffee by the roaring fire, waiting on the sun (and the kids) to rise, thinking about what these walls have seen.
They’ve watched my three children celebrate the happiest moments of their young lives. Priests have said Mass at the dining table, and we’ve enjoyed many nights of less exalted communion there with friends over food and wine. The back yard? That’s where my wife taught herself to be an organic gardener and where she and our children learned how to care for hens.
“But what will we do with our chickens, Daddy?” And, tearfully: “Why do we have to leave our house?” No explanation suffices. This is their house, they rejoice to call it home, and it is being taken from them.
The kids really are losing a part of themselves, for this house, with its generous intimacy, has made our family, as much as we have repaired and remade it. Its century-old lines, softened by nearly a hundred Dallas summers and winters, are a kind of poetry, teaching us how beauty, however humble, matters to creating a family’s haven in a heartless world.
Arts and Crafts movement founder William Morris instructed followers, “Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful.” Well, this artful pile of timbers and craftsmanship taught us that beauty is useful in the upbuilding of a family’s life together, and that true beauty – and worth, and dignity, and humanity – can be found in quiet old places often overlooked.
We do not know the new owners of the house, and that’s too bad, in a way, because I wish they could know how much love its walls cradled. I think of how the kitchen felt in the morning as I poured the first cup of coffee at daylight, and looked out at the chickens ranging in their run. I think about the time we were sick and weary, and Kim and Alfonso came and cooked dinner and brought Italian wine, and we were so happy. There was the night I cooked shrimp pie for Keven and Georges — he, the great chef, and me so intimidated to serve him, but it all worked out well. I think about all of us Drehers piled on the couch on a winter’s night watching “Goodbye, Mr. Chips,” and little Lucas crying his eyes out when Mr. Chips’s wife died. I remember Roscoe, our little black dog, a foundling in the park, a refugee from an abusive home, sitting in my lap stiff as a board in the mornings at the table, fighting hard to overcome his fear of men. And he did. So much love in that house, and comfort, and caring.
Look at this shot of the house from the far end of the backyard:
That was where my children spent five years of their lives. That was where I grilled, and Julie gardened. Our chickens walked there. On that deck sat Vladimir and Olga, and my parents, and the Redards, and the Potthoffs, and the Hills, and everybody’s children, talking, laughing, living. There was that time little Nora and I laid on the trampoline and looked up at the afternoon sky through the leaves and branches of the mulberry tree, and talked about the clouds. I remember that. The Festers were there too, once upon a time, and the neighbors. Wilson came by an hour before we drove away to say goodbye. You should have seen the organic soil I hauled, 30 wheelbarrows full, from the pile in the front yard to that back yard. Arcelia, our devoted housekeeper, that good, good woman, this was her place too, in a way. The newly elected patriarch of the Orthodox Church in America strode across that lawn to bless the chickens and the garden (I have learned just now via Google that the new owners are Byzantine Catholics; if only they knew how many times that house has been blessed by both Catholic and Orthodox priests!). Many were the cold beers downed in that back yard, far exceeded by the laughter. I picked figs early in the morning back there with Lucas when he was three, and I held him in my arms so he could reach the ripe ones up high before the mockingbirds stole them from us. There was the stack of firewood out back, which I’d draw from on cold, wet days, carrying in armloads of logs through that back door to keep my family warm and dry. And oh, that marvelous, marvelous fireplace!
This was where we lived. And now it belongs to somebody else, and I have to be happy about that, because that chapter in my life is closed. I really am happy about that. No kidding. We had to sell that house to get it off the books, and get on with our life. But let it be said that today we sold a part of ourselves that we can never get back, and that breaks my heart just a little bit. It does. I hope the new people love that dear little bungalow as much as we did. If they are only half as happy there as we were, the house will glow like a lantern, and warm every soul who crosses its threshold.
posted June 4, 2010 at 11:20 pm
I am glad you were able to sell it – I do so sympathize with your sense of loss – houses hold hopes too. Best wishes though for a new home where you can build new memories.
posted June 5, 2010 at 12:33 am
I’m certainly no stranger to such feelings; it can be so hard to let go of things that we’ve invested ourselves in and to accept the bittersweet feeling that comes with moving on.
On the other hand, this reminds me of a recent posting where people expressing similar sentiments over what to them was a similar loss were met with a fair amount of derision, if not outright scorn because many here are so far separated from them that they couldn’t comprehend that a chair might hold the same kind of value to those that have nothing else to invest themselves in.
posted June 5, 2010 at 1:23 am
This seems appropriate: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DQYNM6SjD_o
posted June 5, 2010 at 3:18 am
Oh my…im still crying. I just recently did this same thing with my house in Farmers Branch. In my case though I was unable to financially afford it and at the same time I was in college. The hard part about my situation was that the house was essentially where my dad grew up in and my grandfather lived in it up until the day he passed away. I moved into it after he passed and bought it from the estate. My problem was that I was 26 years old when I bought it and by the next year my loan had been bought out by several companies. Each time my loan agreement would change and my minimum payment became unbearable. It’s so sad because I remember the times with my Papa there. I remember all of the memories. I invested alot into the house as well with remodeling and maintaining the property. Im still really kicking myself in the behind with the “what if’s” but, I must learn to let that go. Since my move I have had a difficult time finding a new home. But, just a couple of weeks ago I moved into a new haven. It’s okay but certaintly not the same and much smaller. With God’s will I will find a new chapter in my life now with new friends, new job, new place, new everything. It’s difficult to come to the realization that I may never see the inside of that place again. Kind of makes me feel like I’ve lost one of the most important things that my grandfather worked most of his life for. Like i’ve left a piece of him behind along with all the cherished memories. Thank you for giving me hope and expaining this hardship in such a graceful manner. Thank you. God Bless.
posted June 5, 2010 at 5:19 am
Goodbye little house in Dallas
? Little house, little house in Dallas
Little house, little Dreher palace
All mod “cons” – little house in Dallas
So, oh, oh, so-old! ?
Alt: Little House on the Dreherie
posted June 5, 2010 at 6:17 am
I can always tell when a house has been really loved. I hope the folks who move in will feel it and continue the same way.
posted June 5, 2010 at 6:36 am
Oh, great… I get to start my Saturday in tears. Thanks a lot, Rod
Seriously, thank you. And congratulations on selling the house.
posted June 5, 2010 at 7:05 am
Glad you and Julie have one less burden right now. And bear in mind that Dalas has one of the better real estate markets in the country. If you were trying to sell a house in Phoenix or Miami right now you’d be up the creek.
I can’t say I’ve ever bonded to a house as opposed to the people in a place where I’ve lived. Though I am glad that I sold my house in Michigan to friends and as such I can still visit from time to time. Alas, the friends did not keep up with the garden!
posted June 5, 2010 at 8:07 am
Rod,
I so related to this post. We closed last week on our house in the Dallas area. We took a huge hit, but are so relieved to be out from under it. Yet I’m still sad that it’s no longer ours because we loved that house, although I don’t think as much as you loved yours.
posted June 5, 2010 at 9:00 am
Old houses are underrated. So is the name Nora
posted June 5, 2010 at 9:03 am
Glad you were able to sell the house. We moved so much when I was a kid, that I have trouble getting attached to houses. The things in houses–now, that’s a different story. As long as I have my grandma’s china cabinet and the bedroom suite that came from my great-grandmother’s home, then whatever house I’m living in is home.
captcha: cuckoos history
posted June 5, 2010 at 11:03 am
The house was only a structure – you and Julie made it a home! The experiences shared there were created by you and they could have happened anywhere (even, gulp! in Plano if fate had allowed).
The worst part in all of this is that Dallas no longer has the privilege of the Drehers making it a better community. Whether it was your crusade against those blasted dogs down the street (“gee Mr Wilson!”), to becoming an urban Oliver Wendell Douglas (did you ever serenade your bride to the tune of “Green Acres?”), to proving that one can worship and be a totally pious person without the confines of another structure – a church.
Y’all made it your HOME (that lasts forever); you just sold your HOUSE (that ends when the ink dries). Big difference.
And if you wish to rock out to that thought, pop on the tune “House That We Used to Live In,” by Jersey’s own The Smithereens.
posted June 5, 2010 at 11:22 am
Rod,
I guess I can say I understand. We closed on our house last week after it was on the market 3 1/2 months. We also took a huge financial hit but we had had no choice but to move (clergy assignment). I’m relieved it’s over (for mortgage payment reasons) but it’s the home we brought our fifth child to and we lived there longer than we’ve lived anywhere as a family. I’ve moved so many times in my life that in a way, it’s just one more move, but it’s also the first house we’d sold and that’s something special.
I hope the new family (in your old house) loves it as much as you all did.
God Bless.
posted June 5, 2010 at 12:25 pm
If you are so attached to things here that you think you have “lost a part of yourself” through a house of stone and wood, how will you ever be ready to put down this life and meet the Lord when he has called you to leave it all?
posted June 5, 2010 at 12:38 pm
Have you considered writing a letter to the new inhabitants? Tell them the story of the love contained in those walls…maybe make a new friend in the process.
posted June 5, 2010 at 5:13 pm
I know how much you must miss that house. I too remember the figs from our visit there and I wanted to tell you and Julie that the cutting she sent me last spring is now about 6 ft. tall and bearing a good crop while still in a pot. If you ever move back south, I be sure to give a start of that tree, which was an exceptional variety. Too bad we don’t know what it is.
posted June 6, 2010 at 7:01 pm
. . . thanks to you! Really, what a beautiful post. What a shame that too many people don’t understand what they have to be grateful for, who don’t or are unable to contemplate beauty and love as you do. I, for one, never managed to marry or have kids. At 47, I could choose to be bitter and frustrated, but I freely choose gratitude for what I DO have. DEO GRATIAS, indeed! And I am happy for you and people like you who have a home–a place to truly live, rather than just crash, shower and eat alone. It is love, and appreciation of beauty, that brings the pain at the time of separation. But it means you will appreciate your new home that much more. Wherever it might be.