Of all my memories, the one I associate most with my grandfather is a crushed velvet couch piled six across and two high with Cabbage Patch Dolls. Blondes. Brunettes. Redheads. Boys. Girls. There seemed to be one of every kind displayed on that couch in that wood-paneled living room.
We are officially homeowners for the first time in our lives, and after almost ten years of marriage! We closed on our lovely little house in Port Orchard, Washington on 10/27, took possession the next day, and moved in Thursday.
Have you ever had one of those experiences that really just defy words? At least, right away? I went home to Indiana for a week and only recently got back to Washington, and I’ve been trying to wrap my head around my trip. I discovered something pretty profound, at least to me: they say you can’t go home again, but I don’t believe that’s true. You can, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to feel like home anymore.
We moved from Indianapolis to Seattle last August. Last September, my parents moved out of the house they’d lived in for 29 years. When I headed to their house after arriving at the Indianapolis airport, I was driving to an unfamiliar house in a town I’d never been in. There was no “going home.” In fact, home was gone.
Someday, I’m going to be a blogger that updates more than once every two weeks. I have the best of intentions and a thousand blog topics in my head, but that’s where they stay firmly rooted – right in my noggin. Ugh!
So a couple of updates – one about my health and one about dreams and cars and how they all collide.