Hi-ho, Ohio
We found out this summer that my family is moving to Cincinnati, Ohio. My dad accepted a new job there so that now he'll be able to travel less and evade the inevitable take-over. Also, the idea of leaving the metro Atlanta area appeals to my parents, who are now veteran commuters of this area. So far I'm not all that sad because, obviously, I said goodbye to this house two years ago and I've since nested in Chicago quite nicely. The biggest things I'm worried about are my sister, who is having a hard time getting used to the idea even though she'll remain in Georgia, and my time with Kristen, which will be complicated now that we don't have Alpharetta to call a mutual home base.
Certain people are sometimes astounded by the number of places I've lived in my life, but I don't really feel like an American nomad because I lived in most of those places before I turned seven. Georgia has been our home since the first grade except for a brief 10-month stint in California (which we shall not speak of). This means I've been in the area long enough to know the World Series of '91, the Blizzard of '93, and the Olympics of '96 (which we shall not speak of).
When we moved out of our old house at 11950 Leeward Walk Circle, it really broke my heart at 12 years old. Because I was one of those "talented & gifted" elementary schoolers, I excised my grief "creatively," using "problem-solving skills." Thus, we have several old videos I made with our camcorder (it was the size of a typewriter) of me, giving a tour of our house and recording every detail for posterity. "This is the linoleum we replaced two years ago when we repainted the kitchen," I would say, zooming in on the floor. "This is where we put the Christmas tree. You can still see the pine needles behind the recliner." The tour was an epic ninety minutes of continuous footage and no edits.
Ultimately, a Japanese family bought our house. We moved out the day after New Year's Day, but I left behind a note inside my closet for the future owners. It said something like, "This is the former owner of this room. I lived many years in this house. Please treat it with the same love I gave. -Drew." I like to think that the little Japanese girl found it and took it tearfully to her parents, who in turn read it and felt powerful remorse at having stolen this house from a poor nostalgic twelve year-old boy. Perhaps they framed it and placed it above their dinner table, where they might pause and reflect every night on the great sacrifice this anonymous child had made so that they might have a house.
We found out this summer that my family is moving to Cincinnati, Ohio. My dad accepted a new job there so that now he'll be able to travel less and evade the inevitable take-over. Also, the idea of leaving the metro Atlanta area appeals to my parents, who are now veteran commuters of this area. So far I'm not all that sad because, obviously, I said goodbye to this house two years ago and I've since nested in Chicago quite nicely. The biggest things I'm worried about are my sister, who is having a hard time getting used to the idea even though she'll remain in Georgia, and my time with Kristen, which will be complicated now that we don't have Alpharetta to call a mutual home base.
Certain people are sometimes astounded by the number of places I've lived in my life, but I don't really feel like an American nomad because I lived in most of those places before I turned seven. Georgia has been our home since the first grade except for a brief 10-month stint in California (which we shall not speak of). This means I've been in the area long enough to know the World Series of '91, the Blizzard of '93, and the Olympics of '96 (which we shall not speak of).
When we moved out of our old house at 11950 Leeward Walk Circle, it really broke my heart at 12 years old. Because I was one of those "talented & gifted" elementary schoolers, I excised my grief "creatively," using "problem-solving skills." Thus, we have several old videos I made with our camcorder (it was the size of a typewriter) of me, giving a tour of our house and recording every detail for posterity. "This is the linoleum we replaced two years ago when we repainted the kitchen," I would say, zooming in on the floor. "This is where we put the Christmas tree. You can still see the pine needles behind the recliner." The tour was an epic ninety minutes of continuous footage and no edits.
Ultimately, a Japanese family bought our house. We moved out the day after New Year's Day, but I left behind a note inside my closet for the future owners. It said something like, "This is the former owner of this room. I lived many years in this house. Please treat it with the same love I gave. -Drew." I like to think that the little Japanese girl found it and took it tearfully to her parents, who in turn read it and felt powerful remorse at having stolen this house from a poor nostalgic twelve year-old boy. Perhaps they framed it and placed it above their dinner table, where they might pause and reflect every night on the great sacrifice this anonymous child had made so that they might have a house.
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