There's No Place Like Home

A few weeks ago, my husband noticed that our old house in Falls Church was up for sale, and that an open house was scheduled for the next day, a Sunday afternoon.

We decided to go, driven by fond memories and the natural curiosity of former home owners:  Did they open up the living area by knocking down the wall between the kitchen and large dining room – something we always wanted to do but really couldn’t afford at the time?  Was our daughter’s room still that pretty celadon green?  And what about that dark paneling in the family room downstairs?

We guessed they were selling it now because, as we learned too after a few years there, the schools in that neighborhood weren’t really that great.  Also, there likely weren’t going to be many kids on the block for some time to come as older residents on our street, most of them there for decades, weren’t going to leave until…you know.

Happily, we discovered that the house remained largely as we left it, with paint the only major upgrade in evidence. The asking price was about $40,000 more than they paid for it – a sign that the market was coming back in that area and maybe, beyond making a small profit, also a small indication that they too had valued and loved that home for the reasons we did:  The beginning of a marriage and family, a joint decision to put a stake in the ground as a couple, and build a life together.  The first and, in many ways, the most unforgettable place they would ever know.

My husband asked, half-joking, if we should make an offer on the house.  We both smiled sadly, knowing the answer.  We confessed to the agent showing the house that we were curious, previous owners and thanked him for letting us linger, then went on our way. 


This week marks seven years since we left that big white house in Falls Church for our smaller but sweet little castle on a tree-lined hill in Arlington.   I’ve come to love this house as much, if not more, than our Falls Church “manse” – we’ve really come together as a family here.  Our daughter has run barefoot and laughing through the grass on summer days with a posse of neighborhood kids trailing behind, and sledded down our hill during Snowpocalypse.  We’ve made good friendships with our neighbors that remain strong today, even as our daughters have drifted apart.

My husband and I have settled ever more comfortably into our marriage too while living here – a bit more patient and playful about each other’s quirks and weaknesses, while being bewitched, bothered and sometimes bewildered by the beautiful daughter we’ve been given the privilege to raise in this home.

 I could imagine happily staying in this place for the remainder of my days, looking out over my neighborhood from the top of my little Arlington hill.  But, as my husband reminds me, my knees won’t let me, nor his.  Too many stairs to carry groceries, for one thing.   

As always, my husband has a point.