Life builds in expectations. It's hard to see structural expectations when things fall in line the way they are supposed to. Absence reveals structure. You don't see the posts and joists in your house because they are covered up with drywall and paint and carpet. What if the contractors never showed up to install any of that stuff and you moved in anyway?
Our entire life has been built in anticipation of children. We married young, went to university, bought a three bedroom house in a decent neighbourhood close to good schools. We have reliable four doored vehicles, good steady careers, and a dog.
The foundation is good. The roof doesn't leak and the walls are solid, but it's still hard to tell what each room is going supposed to be. You can see from one side all the way across to the other and it echos strangely. Apparently drywall isn't my thing and I can't get a contractor to call me back.
It occurred to me the other day, changing the floor plan at this stage could be pretty easy. Knock down a few walls, add a window here and there, maybe just pick the whole damn thing up and move it on down the road. A few changes to the structure might make the absence into a cool minimalist thing instead of just some unfinished suburban cutout. I'm left with a decision: is redesigning the same as giving up?
Showing posts with label future. Show all posts
Showing posts with label future. Show all posts
Monday, January 27, 2014
Friday, January 11, 2013
Change is coming
My parents are moving at the end of this month. Their house is sold, half their stuff is already moved, the rest is packed. Dad is retiring after 32 years of public school teaching. They will be moving away from the town they never meant to move to, let alone stay in. As it turned out, they built a life and raised a family there.
In some ways it seems like someone is dying. They have been going around doing things "One last time." Skiing the local alpine mountain, driving by their first house, visiting people they may not see again, remembering. They are excited about the move, being closer to family, not having to shovel nearly so much snow, but when we talked this week I thought all three of us might cry.
We talked about that first house, the climbing tree (story in process), and the street out front where I learned to ride a bike. The neighbours still live there, their children also flown from the nest. Before I left home, I spent my winters cross-country skiing. We started out at a golf course, then at a provincial park, then finally our club was able to put in dedicated trails with a proper warming hut. We all helped, marking out trails, clearing brush, putting up the building. Our family was heavily involved and deeply connected with that club.
I've been away more or less since high school, and each year my connections to that little town have faded a little more. Friends have moved away or drifted into acquaintance-hood. I know maybe half a dozen people at the church I grew up in. With my folks living there, there has always been a reason to return and a place to stay when I did. I can't say when the next time I'll visit will be. Maybe one day I'll have kids of my own to take on a road trip and tell boring stories about what used to be in that old building. That house I helped build when I was 13. When that whole hillside was just trees and I would run around building forts and spears with my friends and my dog. The old sledding track has been gone for years already, but we spent hours hauling sleds up that hill and building jumps at the bottom.
I worry that my memories of childhood will fade and distort without occasionally visiting those old places. It's as though one of the last ties between who I was and whom I will be is being cut. "Where I'm from" will slip ever deeper into myth. I've never had any intention of moving back; it was a fine place to grow up and to visit, but I don't want to live there. I don't think I expected or even wanted things to stay the same as they have been. Nothing wrong with looking back now and then, even if the old things seem so far away as to have been perfect. The view forward is dim and hard to make out, but it is coming regardless. It should be an interesting year.
In some ways it seems like someone is dying. They have been going around doing things "One last time." Skiing the local alpine mountain, driving by their first house, visiting people they may not see again, remembering. They are excited about the move, being closer to family, not having to shovel nearly so much snow, but when we talked this week I thought all three of us might cry.
We talked about that first house, the climbing tree (story in process), and the street out front where I learned to ride a bike. The neighbours still live there, their children also flown from the nest. Before I left home, I spent my winters cross-country skiing. We started out at a golf course, then at a provincial park, then finally our club was able to put in dedicated trails with a proper warming hut. We all helped, marking out trails, clearing brush, putting up the building. Our family was heavily involved and deeply connected with that club.
I've been away more or less since high school, and each year my connections to that little town have faded a little more. Friends have moved away or drifted into acquaintance-hood. I know maybe half a dozen people at the church I grew up in. With my folks living there, there has always been a reason to return and a place to stay when I did. I can't say when the next time I'll visit will be. Maybe one day I'll have kids of my own to take on a road trip and tell boring stories about what used to be in that old building. That house I helped build when I was 13. When that whole hillside was just trees and I would run around building forts and spears with my friends and my dog. The old sledding track has been gone for years already, but we spent hours hauling sleds up that hill and building jumps at the bottom.
I worry that my memories of childhood will fade and distort without occasionally visiting those old places. It's as though one of the last ties between who I was and whom I will be is being cut. "Where I'm from" will slip ever deeper into myth. I've never had any intention of moving back; it was a fine place to grow up and to visit, but I don't want to live there. I don't think I expected or even wanted things to stay the same as they have been. Nothing wrong with looking back now and then, even if the old things seem so far away as to have been perfect. The view forward is dim and hard to make out, but it is coming regardless. It should be an interesting year.
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