I was having doubts that this day would come, resigning myself instead to what could have been, what lots of well meaning friends warned me could be…
“You might have to live in a tiny one-bedroom,” they’d say.
“If that’s what you have to do, you’ll do it.”
But after months of searching, losing faith, and searching again, my kids and I have finally moved into a place of our own, the first post-separation dwelling where we get to begin again. It’s better than anything I could have imagined. My cup runneth over.
In the two nights I’ve slept under this roof, my senses have been in overdrive. There’s a lot to absorb when moving to a new place. There always is.
But, there’s something about this place that has me much more sensory than I’ve been in a long, long while. A 1964 split-level will do that to a girl who likes design, and the history of. For all of my worry, it’s as if I was meant to be here in this house. Like it was waiting for me all along.
As most of my boxes sit cracked and opened, waiting for furniture to be delivered so that their contents may have a home of their own, I’ve been tinkering and toddling, dreaming and dwelling.
It’s been a long tough year. Much more difficult than I expected it to be even with great support from the people who love me and helped me along the way.
And so I’m astonished to find myself in a house right out of Mad Men whose levelors reflect onto opposing walls in the night’s light, making me wonder if this was the designer’s plan way back when. The never upgraded kitchen doesn’t fit any of today’s modern oversized cookware, which is humorous, and oddly perfect, as I’ve no talent with cookware, or frankly, anything to do with the happenings in kitchens. The central part of the house that gives it its split-level status is entirely made of brick, except for its cool stone floor. The doors on closets open accordion-style. The tiles in the bathrooms are original, a soft shade of pink. The bright orange front door screams for a pink welcome mat, which screams, “A bunch of girls live here!” Vents in bathroom walls are ornate instead of boring straight slats. And, the landing between the stairs whose purpose I couldn’t determine was a no brainer for little girls who immediately saw it as a fine place for reading, and teaching stuffed animals how to spell.
It’ll probably take a bit of time until things get organized and put away, longer to get into a groove.
So, moving on and grooving we go in this meant to be groovy (so groovy) new old house.