Now we're moving

Or so it seems right now.  We put an offer on the house below, it's been accepted, and so we're knee-deep in the escrow process now as appraisals, home inspections, and well tests are completed.  It's the same thing as we just went through on that other house -- one that fell out of escrow when it appraised at $45K below sale price -- but so far this one has gone much more smoothly (appraisal and all!) and I have a good feeling about it.  I actually feel even better about this house, because it has a lot more room and is all in all a more practical (and scenic) choice for us.  Cheaper, too.


And so the packing begins.  I pack up boxes, I pack up memories, and I pack up feelings.  The boxes are a practical matter, and since I moved 20 times in my younger years, I consider myself something of an expert in packing.  The memories are a little bit harder to sort through.  This town has been my home for the last 21 years, and I will miss all that it was.  That's right, was.  I will talk about that sometime in a future post, but I don't want to spoil the hopeful mood I'm in with the very real grief I feel over what my current town has become.     As for my feelings?  I am hopeful.  Hopeful that we've found a good piece of land to work, that the next chapter of our lives is going to be a good one, and that I've given my kids what they need to go off and fly into the world, which is the only thing we are really supposed to give them, in the end.  If they're loved enough, secure enough, and have enough confidence, they will go out and become the adults God meant for them to be.  That was our only job when it came to our children, and I hope we did it according to plan. 


     For us now though, there's the enticing possibility of a house on a hill, surrounded by oaks and green spring grasses, with fresh air and country quiet.  


On the homestead front, wine to be racked, carrots to be preserved, a summer garden to put in for the new owners of the house, and, of course packing and more packing.