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.
Last year, I did most of my preserving in the spring, putting up what I thought would be a sufficient amount of preserved foods to keep us going through the next 12 months or so. This is always a guessing game, as my family tends to go on food jags -- where they'll want a particular item every day for a couple of months, for example -- but it will be followed by a period when no one touches the stuff for a year or more. Totally unpredictable, and often frustrating.
Sometime around last Christmas, for instance, we ran out of strawberry preserves (due to a teenager-induced drain on our Strategic Strawberry Jam Reserves) and I decided not to buy more at the store, waiting instead for spring, when strawberries would be back in season and I could make some more jam at home. It's been a long wait, and I don't think anyone has missed strawberry jam more than me. I have plenty of marmalade (and ironically, I was stocked up on it because this was the item I ran out of in early 2011), but it doesn't take the place of strawberry jam. I love my marmalade, but frankly am a little burned out on it at this point.
A
s I write this, the breadmaker sits on the floor to my right, underneath what could be a breakfast bar if we'd ever bothered to buy some bar stools. There's a vase filled with kitchen utensils next to the stove, and a little later today there will be a huge fermenting bucket of carrot mash (which will eventually become wine) sitting in the kitchen on the floor.
A couple of months ago, before we sold this house, our realtor wisely advised we put away everything that could clutter the place, including all the aforementioned items. It's easy to see why: Selling a home is more about selling an idea than an actual dwelling. When we tour a home and see a spotless, uncluttered kitchen, something in our brains makes this weird connection, almost saying, "if I lived here, my kitchen would look like this." In reality, we know this isn't true, yet when we put ourselves into the model kitchen, we somehow believe it.
But if you are a homesteader, you should doubly know this will never be the case. Homesteaders live in their kitchens. It's where we wash and clean our harvested fruits and vegetables, it's where all the serious homestead alchemy we do is accomplished (including home butchering for some, canning and preserving food, making soap, detergent, and lotions from scratch, etc.) and there is a lot of stuff that comes with those activities.
And so the breadmaker is left out where we can conveniently grab it, our pantry is filled with both full and empty mason jars, and there's winemaking equipment around. Our counters are dirty because we just bought in an armload of carrots to clean. There's pruning shears laying around, re-usable kitchen rags on the counter, a composting pail next to the sink and plastic bags drying so they can be re-used.
We recently made the mistake of making an offer on a house that never would have worked for us. The reason? It was beautiful, but did not have enough room. Thankfully things fell through, but I will never again fall for the myth of the spotless kitchen, because, as the kids say, "that's just not how I roll."
So give me the house where I can leave the breadmaker on the floor and accidentally spill lye on the counters and it won't ruin anything: the spotless life is beautiful, but not for me. I am a homesteader.
I was reading the San Luis Obispo paper the other day (online, in preparation for when we'll be living there) and found a link to this site. http://www.countyhealthrankings.org/ It details the health grades of each one of California's counties. Kings County, where I currently live, ranks close to the bottom in all areas. The survey measures health-related issues, like access to recreational facilities, ratio of doctors to residents, obesity, mortality rates, and air quality. San Luis Obispo County, on the other hand, is in the top third of counties in the areas measured.
A lot of times friends or acquaintances ask why we're moving, and if I had to point to the biggest issue, this chart sums it up nicely. I may hate the summer weather here, the fog, and the declining socio-economic climate of our town, but the health issues are what's most important. The air here is so bad I can only stay healthy by getting a Kenalog (a steroid) shot a couple of times a year. Unfortunately, it comes with some nasty side effects, so being able to stop the Kenalog shots will make a huge difference in my quality of life. I also have asthma, which is exacerbated by the poor air, so I'm expecting that to improve as well.
I can wax romantic about the lovely hills, the vineyards, the nearness of the ocean and the dark skies at night, but the fact is we are making this decision to move for health reasons above all others. I feel bad for the friends we are leaving behind, but make no apologies for putting the long-term health of myself and my family first.
I have spent the last several days in an inner place in my mind, beginning to process the changes that are occurring -- one kid off to college, another off to college but still living at home, and a third not quite sure what her plans are, plus doing two high school graduations, selling a house, buying another, plus moving 90 miles and a world away from where we are now.
It's no wonder at times I feel a sense of vertigo; as if it's all spinning too fast and I need to step off the merry-go-round for awhile. I've felt more un-footed and rootless than I have in years, this during a time I thought I'd be doing a touchdown victory dance in the endzone of life. But sometimes no matter how much you prepare for a change, no matter how long you're expecting it for, when it finally happens you still find yourself a little in shock.
I've realized one thing I can do to help in the transition once we're moved in is to create some new traditions. When I first divorced and my son was very small, that was how I anchored myself in a new and strange life as a single mom. Once a week, we'd have Pajama Pizza Parties, where we'd come home, change into our jammies and sit and eat pizza in front on the fire on a picnic blanket. There was the Blossom Train in springtime, the pool in summer, Satterstroms around Halloween and a Christmas Cake at the holidays.
They were simple traditions, and maybe that was the point. I think I needed very much to realize that things could be good again, and easy ... and fun. Those things helped me keep my sanity. No matter what was happening on the job, with my divorce, or in my personal life, Pajama Pizza Night would be there, and all that would be required of me would be to sit in front of the fireplace with my little boy and enjoy some time together.
My husband and I (as well as just me on my own) and the various assortment of adult kids who will be coming in and out of the house will all have to start creating new traditions in our new home and our new area. It might be Sundays at the beach, Tuesday night Chinese Take-Out, or maybe just a walk down the hill to the mailbox to get the day's mail. Maybe a once-a-month get together with family. Who knows. It's one of the many "yet-to-be-determined" things about the transition we're currently in the midst of.
It takes a long time to make a house a home, say nothing of a new area, and until you do, you are bound to feel a bit unsettled. I know this in my head, but it still does not stop the fears and the insecurities from sometimes trying to take hold at 3 a.m., telling me we've made some kind of huge mistake in electing to leave the familiar and strike out in search of something better. But I know we haven't. We're just losing a whole phase of our life -- that of parents with young children -- and the new traditions, those of being parents with older kids, have not yet arrived.
But I know they're on their way, sure as the sun's going to rise tomorrow.
This last week has been all about houses. Getting this one inspected, from roof to floors, by various home inspectors. And making and offer and having it accepted on a new house, west of here. It's not a done deal; talk to anyone in real estate and they'll tell you sad tales of houses dropping out of escrow and back into the hands of their original owners, but the odds are in our favor that all will proceed smoothly and in a couple more months, we'll be starting to move things into our new home, which sits on a lovely hill overlooking the vineyards and the city off to the west.
Our move has been a driving force in my life for the past two years. I felt we needed to get out of this valley to provide our kids with better opportunities west of here (unemployment rate here: 17 percent. Unemployment in San Luis Obispo County: 8 percent. Need I say more?). We wanted them to have access to clean air and a more outdoors-oriented lifestyle for the sake of their -- and our -- health. My husband and I want to retire there and want to begin laying down our roots there now. The reasons were many.
But nonetheless, when we got the call that the offer we made on a house there had been accepted, my reaction was to feel as if the wind had been knocked out of me.
I am not sure why that is. I had always anticipated that moment being a little like winning the big prize on a game show, or at least getting a formal acknowledgement that Heaven approved our life transfer to a nicer place just this side of paradise. Instead I hung my head in shock and, believe it or not, a feeling of fear. Fear of the unknown. And the realization that the next phase of life was truly beginning, which meant the current one was truly ending.
And that was it. I was feeling, I realized, a sadness that welled up from knowing this phase of life is almost over, and with it, my job as a full-time mom to a little boy who has grown into a fine young man.
I thought about my odd reaction for a long time afterwards. And now that the dawn has broken on a new day, I feel a lot more positive about the whole thing. I am happy it all worked out, and grateful to the Man Upstairs for having it happen the way it did. The timing of it all could not be more blessed. We will see our boys graduate, see all three kids to the end of the school year, and yet still escape before the endless heat and air pollution of the valley's 7-month summer has really been with us long.
But I've also realized I won't necessarily go dancing out of this valley in a blaze of victory like I always thought I would when I finally got my ticket punched to leave. Instead, I will leave in a somber, reflective and gently hopeful mood, an appropriate tone for the moment when you close one of Life's books and begin another.
One of the things you have to get used to when you are moving is your privacy being invaded. Start showing your home and for the hour you are gone, it's probable there are people not only looking at the furniture and things you've left out, but also what's in your closets, your cupboards and under your bathroom sink, as they inspect each one for storage space. It's slightly embarrassing, but necessary if you want to sell your house.
Yesterday we had our home inspection and the inspector showed up, along with the buyer's realtor (which is expected) plus three extended family members of the buyers (which is not expected). This means all five of these people opened every drawer and cupboard we own to make sure all was in working order. It was uncomfortable for us as we drove away, knowing all these virtual strangers were going to get to know us VERY well over the next couple of hours, while we were away.
Many aspects of our lives in this world involve invasion of our privacy. We fly, and someone we don't know is either going to view us on a superman-style X-ray screener, or we submit to a very personal pat down, or both. At any given moment in a public place, someone could have their cellphone video camera on and we're being recorded without ever realizing it. In short, much of what used to be our private life has become public.
That being said, I think on of the first things I'm going to check on when we move is our privacy. And if we need to build a fence, we will do so. A great-big fence. Yup, I'm sensing a definite privacy-binge coming on, once we are where we are going.
