On Saturday, it will be a year since we moved into this house.
After living in the same house from my 1st birthday until the day after my 23rd, I have moved house three times in two and a half years. Three different addresses (and having to change that address on every website and bill), three different suburbs (with varying quality of cafes) and three different houses, with their own vibes.
I feel like Goldilocks.
The first house we lived in was huge, and came with Tom’s job as a minister.
It had four bedrooms and three bathrooms, and everything was white and beige. It was the perfect blank slate for a newly married couple, and when we moved in, the church had put together some hampers for us as a welcome, to fill the myriad of cupboards. It was also perfect for lockdown – there was enough space for both of us to be apart when we needed to, and to come together when we wanted to. We used to pull down the blind and project movies onto it, snuggled on the couch with our dogs.
However, it was very clearly a minister’s house. The bedrooms were empty and the living room could fit two dining tables (which we had), so I constantly felt like I needed to fill it with people (so I did). When the church asked us to move to a different house, where they wanted to hold creche on Sunday mornings, we didn’t feel as though we could refuse (and then we tried to, and it was very awkward). And of course, when Tom decided to leave the job, we were left without a house all together.
The second house we lived in was tiny in comparison.
Tom had no job, and we were quickly running out of money, so we applied for every house we saw, and sold a lot of furniture. We ended up in a conspicuously cheap house in a neighbourhood we had never heard of, and the reasons became quickly apparent. Tom had things thrown at his car, people reported us to the council for parking on the grass (which they mustn’t have sent someone to actually check, as they would have discovered many other things to report) and finally, I had a man threaten to kill my dogs if he ever saw them again, and spent the next few nights scared that every bump was someone dropping poisoned meat over the fence (which happened to a neighbour of mine when I was a kid, and has been a fear ever since). I was so anxious to leave, and we had so little money, that I decided to clean the house top to bottom by myself because Tom was at work, and (*warning: graphic*), I worked so hard that I vomited while driving down the Hume Highway into a plastic bag and had to keep driving until I could turn down a side street and pull over.
But it wasn’t all bad. We were within walking distance to Cabramatta, with its cheap fruit, food and bubble tea. Ten minutes from Lincraft, and not one but two donut shops. There was a huge field behind our house where I used to just let the dogs run free when I didn’t have the energy to walk them. We were even close to a train station. And it was the first house in my life that had been truly mine.
So, after the *tense* discussion with the man, we started looking again for somewhere to live, anxious both to move quickly and not to move too quickly. Within an hour of this house being up, I stumbled across it.
When we were dating, Tom was living at SMBC and I used to come and visit him, pick him up to go out and explore. My parents and I used to shop at Marrickville, Newtown is an old haunt of mine, and I’d heard great things about Burwood, and Croydon is in the middle of all of that, as well as 20 minutes from my parents. I used to drive past the houses, or we would go for walks, or sit in the car next to the park, and just talk, and I was so impressed by the huge gardens and quaint little red brick houses. When he started studying again, we were still in Warwick Farm, so it hadn’t occurred to me that we would ever live here, let alone could afford to. However, God is good. The house is owned by Transport NSW of all people, so the rent is cheap (I suspect our rent is a drop in the proverbial bucket which they barely notice) but the house is well maintained. This was the last job for our real estate agent before she moved on and she loved dogs. We saw the house, applied for it, viewed it and got accepted all within 24 hours.
On one hand, they say home is where the heart is, and that’s true.
The same people have been at every house warming party we’ve had, coming to celebrate with us and fill our new home with love and laughter. Our dogs don’t really seem to care where we are, and seem excited wherever we go – they just care that we’re together. I sometimes wonder what would happen if the house burned down, and I know that we would figure it out, just like we’ve figured out everything else so far.
But on the other hand, it’s nice to have a home.
It means so much to have a place where we feel safe and just like being. I was thinking about writing this post on my drive home from seeing a friend, and I thought about writing about my favourite room, before I realised that all of the rooms are my favourite.
I love the front room, where my plants are, many from my hen’s night, where I sit with Luna and watch people walk by, and she howls with the ambulances.
I love the bedroom, and the huge wardrobe we got off Facebook marketplace. We used the same movers both times, and the man only realised when he saw our bed, which locks really neatly together like a puzzle, and he recalled how impressive it was.
I love the study, with its wall that perfectly houses all our books, which doubles as our spare room that has been used more in this house than when we had three rooms to spare at Moorebank.
I love our living room, which has hosted so many beautiful people, and our dining room, where we sit and eat, and had to put a wardrobe which didn’t quite fit anywhere else and doesn’t quite fit there, but it doesn’t matter.
I especially love our garden, which we didn’t put any work into but get to enjoy the fruits of, sometimes literally.
I love that we have a cafe to get croissants from on a Sunday morning, and two dog parks to choose from, and really, really nice neighbours.
I love that I have a mantelpiece.
So, here’s to a year.
I know it’s a bit silly to write a love letter to your house, but I guess these houses represent so much more – they are chapters in my life, for better or worse, and even though I know this chapter will end some day, I’m just glad to be in it, just as I’m glad to be in this house, its bricks and mortar. One day, I’ll drive past it (or Transport NSW will have widened Georges River Road, so I’ll drive in the lane where my house used to be) and I’ll remember a time when I was truly happy.
Homes hold more than just your stuff – they house your memories, and tears, and laughter, as much as you try to scrub them to a standard acceptable enough to get your bond back. So I’m thankful that this home got to house us, at least for a little bit.
‘Tis grace has brought me safe thus far, and grace will lead me home.
Pears 