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How Can We Name a Love? - Blather. Rants. Repeat.
A Møøse once bit my sister ...
How Can We Name a Love?
(Number 111 in your program;)

I got thinking this weekend, as I almost always do on this weekend, about how we came to live in this region, this town, this house, and it began 22 Memorial Days ago.  I've posted about our merry misadventures before- driving out in the stupid car I'd bought from one of my suddenly former partners; looking at house after house; finally getting a key, of all things, stuck in the tread of one tire and rendering us motionless off of Sheridan Drive on a national holiday; winding up at Sears (the only open automotive joint on such a day) to get it repaired or replaced; and finally learning that our first-choice-house offer had been rejected but our backup offer on this one was okayed.

A little over two months later, it was ours.  Now, almost twenty-two years later, it still is.

I was pretty Pollyannaish about how this homeowning experience was going to go, after just over three years in our first and last Real Rochester House.  There, in that short time, we'd had to replace our furnace, our central air, much plumbing and, at the end, windows just to get it on the market.

So naturally, within the first few years, all of those same things went on this house.  We'd been sold a "home warranty," but it didn't cover things like the Frankenstein-designed central air system from the original electrician owner.  In time, we also replaced the roof, the garage door opener, the garage door itself, and, finally a year ago, most of the workings of the kitchen.

Even so. The house has been good to us.  Once things have been fixed, they've tended to stay that way.  I always have a bit of trepidation turning on the heat every October or the A/C every May (finally did, two days ago), but they've always responded.

It must've been a harder transition for Eleanor. The grounds were almost entirely bare when we got here; Eddie (aka Frankenstein), who owned the place from its construction until a couple years before us, liked to putt rather than putter on the grounds, and there were all of two trees on the entire lot.  Yet that also represented a blank canvas for a master gardener, and even I've had my successes at planting- especially Dave the Pin Oak, which came home circa 1996 in the back seat of our small Chevy and is now likely the tallest tree on the lot.

We worked around him for several hours today- me whacking wisteria in his vicinity, and Eleanor chainsawing off some of his deader low-hanging branches. 

One of my thoughts the other day was about how we've never put a moniker on these premises. Every car, every computer, many plants indoors and out have acquired names, but we've never put one other than our street address on the biggest center of our lives.

Yet, in the end, that seems right.  Because this is the place which, by 1998, had exceeded the length of any place we'd ever lived together- and which, by 2012, became the longest fixed address I'd ever held down in any one single place.  It's the one that has, numerous times, poured out its appreciation on us to lower our mortgage payments and remove other obligations.  The one that neither of us can see ever moving from just for "moving up."

It does have a name- a simple one.

We call it "home."
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angledge From: angledge Date: May 29th, 2016 12:46 am (UTC) (Link)

Home indeed. A fine name.

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