My parents recently sold my childhood home, or their home rather. I oft lay claim to the house in Cornish when talking about it despite the fact that I never held the mortgage, paid the electricity bills, or played any major role in upkeep for that matter. In reality, the 18th-century victorian homestead that I grew up in had become far too big for the two empty nesters also known as mom and dad. Not to mention that the multi-acre yard required maintenance fit for a team of spry landscapers, not a couple preparing for retirement.
So this summer, while I was away, they put the place on the market. It wasn’t a huge surprise seeing as they’d thrown out the idea many times before to the rest of the family who was in full support of a change. Sure enough, less than a week after the listing went up and before they could even think twice about their leap of faith––someone put in an offer. It was an older couple from Old Orchard Beach who ended up buying the place. I’m sure they’re friendly enough folks who will make lovely additions to my hometown, but it doesn’t feel right knowing that house won’t be occupied by a family; one with kids dancing around the kitchen and dogs bolting through the yard. In other words, yes I was a little bitter about it and no I didn’t make an effort to meet the two newbies.
It seems silly to make a big deal of moving from your childhood home in your twenties. In a lot of ways I feel as though I redefined home a long time ago. I’d temporarily lived in plenty of places since 2019 that didn’t include "home": Boston, Rwanda, Vermont, Orono, Monhegan, etc. Still, there's something comforting about the consistency in knowing 154 High Rd would always have a bed for me––one with clean sheets and soft pillows (thanks mom).
Given my nomadic status over the past two years, the news of trading in the house and Cornish for a new property in Industry, Maine, didn’t initially phase me. But when I did finally return to Cornish, a mere few days before completely packing up my childhood into boxes, everything began to slowly sink in.
The last 48 hours in the house were dreadful. In fact, I blame the entire moving process itself for shrouding my final perceptions of the place I was raised in. I only got a small taste of the Marie Kondo exercise from hell that my parents had evidently been dealing with for months prior to the move, but it was enough to convince me that I never wish to buy a home, or maybe that I only ever wish to buy just one home. The physical and mental labor of emptying a space is enough to exhaust you to the point of mindlessness. It gets you to a place in which you don’t even have the energy to feel sad or nostalgic about… anything involving home, including its contents. Prepubescent memorabilia and timeless keepsakes become meaningless. In the ever-consuming game of “keep or go," the eight-year-old crafts and high school soccer medals that once felt priceless become one less thing to carry on to the next place.
On our last night, I was so overwhelmed by the anxiety of not knowing what was to come and not quite registering what I was leaving behind, I gave up on loading the U-Haul truck parked in our driveway and went for a walk. More of an epic journey really. I’ve always been a walker, even before covid quarantines and soccer moms made it cool. I love the freedom of knowing that I can reach most places I need to without relying on fuel, money, or someone else to get me there. Complete transportation autonomy. I always listen to music too because in a cliché, main character kind of way, I like how a song can change or further deepen a mood I wish to settle into. A feeling I really wanna feel if you will.
After excusing myself from departure duties, I pressed play on a pre-made depressing playlist complete with all the songs I used to cry to in high school when I felt sporadically and catatonically dejected for reasons unknown. I walked downtown and stopped at the bridge that runs over the Ossipee River. I stood up on the concrete siding and looked over the edge at the water. Somehow I had never done this before or given the bridge any thought really which freaked me out. I thought about how I’d never again float down this body of water in tubes with my friends, or perhaps I would one day for a high school reunion or something, but it wouldn’t be the same.
That’s when the realization of permanent withdrawal from Cornish started to kick in.
My mind began calculating a quickly growing list of things I had taken for granted, and would never again get the chance to experience. The town fair, grocery shopping at Call’s, walking around the horse track, picking up prescriptions from Walgreens, grabbing dessert at Krista’s, buying fritters at the Apple Festival––the mundane towny things that suddenly felt so precious and irreplaceable.
I continued walking to Apple Acres and then kept walking… and walking… and walking until I came out on South Hiram Rd. Again I thought to myself, I’ve never walked here before. How is it possible that I’ve driven this road thousands of times yet never taken the time to traverse it on foot? With that in mind and misty rain setting the 6 PM October mood, I figured why not keep going? Before I knew it, I was past the town graveyard. I thought about a particular Memorial Day parade years ago that commenced there. My friends Eddie, Katie, Hannah and I had decided to ride in the parade on our bikes without permission for no reason at all, as if we were floats at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade. I also thought about how lucky I was that I never had to watch anybody get lowered into the ground there. Then I passed Bay Haven. I loved going to that restaurant as a kid, just my dad and I. Naturally, since it was a seafood place, I would order chicken fingers and hot chocolate, he some mixture of fried mollusks and a beer. I remembered how the kids’ meal came with a Dum Dum lollipop which to my chagrin was always plopped into the side dish of coleslaw that came with it. That disgusted me at the time, but I eventually ate the candy with pleasure after fully ridding its white stick of any ranch-soaked cabbage remnants. Then I walked by Family Dollar which has hosted many a high school car wash fundraiser in my day. I was never the best at cleaning cars, but I received a reputation for standing in the middle of the intersection and guilt tripping passing vehicles into donating cash to my soccer, basketball, and track teams.
I continued down the road like that for a while before my mom eventually picked me up in her car. I had walked over six miles by the end and was grateful for the ride, but also the quite literal journey down memory lane.
The next day was filled with more expected chaos. My parents were out the door pretty early in the morning to make it in time to their closing. I was the last one to leave the house. I took one final stroll around before closing up shop for good. Each room was completely stripped of all furniture and decor which alone made me cry. Just walls, floors, and layers of paint. I expected to get flashbacks of the spectacular memories from my childhood as I made my rounds throughout each room: Christmas morning, blowing out birthday candles, parties, opening gifts, etc.
But instead it was recollections of all the beautifully ordinary days that came to mind.
I could hear the giggles from the office as my sisters and I made Photo Booth videos on our state-of-the-art MacBook computer on a school night. I could smell my mom’s chocolate chip cookies wafting from the oven in the kitchen, could even feel the warm baked good falling apart in my hand as she slid one to my open palm from the cooling rack. I smelled wet dogs too, as if our golden retrievers and yellow labs had just taken dips in the Whitney’s pond and promptly shaken their sopping bodies at my feet. From the mud room I could hear my dad shout “hello my beautiful girls!” As he returned home from a work trip. I imagined him undoing his tie and giving us all bear hugs and kisses on the cheek.
All of the family dinners, rushed breakfasts before catching the school bus, pre-sporting event rituals, chore-champ challenges, informal talent shows, and kitchen dance parties felt so insignificant to me at the time. So perpetually normal. But man what I’d give to go back and spend an average Tuesday at my loving home as a nine year old.
I ran my fingers along the blank walls thinking about what used to cover them: fine art in most of the house, posters about peace and nature and music in Olivia’s room, a half-finished collage of Teen Vogue magazines in Justine’s. My room was usually decorated in my own art which similarly to my eclectic choice of bright blue and yellow walls, followed no cohesive theme aside from boldness.
“Thank you,” I said aloud to each room before exiting. That’s a thing I’ve been doing lately when I have time alone just before leaving somewhere meaningful. It was the least I could do for a place that anchored me for the last two decades.
Pulling out of the driveway induced another unforeseen bout of waterworks. I know I’ll drive by the house again and perhaps even pull in with my own kids one day to show them where their mom felt most loved and cared for. But there will be new cars parked on the pavement, unrecognizable faces in the windows, and probably different colors painted onto the siding.
The entire ride to Industry felt like a metaphor for life moving on. I had no choice but to blindly go forward, three dogs, a cat, and two parents in tow. As a mediocre wanderer at this point in my life, I’ve learned that we all have infinite space for new homes, or whatever home means to each of us. You don’t forget about the influential people, places, and things in order to welcome new ones, you simply make room for more.
Our new house has been incredible. It’s new (newer I should say), and cozy, clean, and full of opportunity to make it something special. Industry itself is a similarly wonderful blank slate. The people so far are heavily disproving the Central Maine stereotype of reserved coldness, our neighbors are sweet and inclusive and somehow not one person has complained about our pets invading their lawns. There’s a gorgeous lake literally right across the street too. From our living room and front porch there’s an unbeatable view of Clearwater Pond which we luckily got to witness during peak foliage season.
My room has pretty much doubled in size. I’m currently in a loft on the third floor which has two massive closets, and loads of space for my art. I even have a TV up there which––as someone who was never allowed such a screen in my room––feels pretty luxurious.
I’m traveling through Europe with Olivia come late November, and that means a new and extreme process of packing up and shipping out again. Being here for the time being feels good though. My days are slow and full of independent activities (just the way I like it sometimes). I’m realizing that lots of the little things that made 154 High Rd home, feel just the same here at this new address. My parents and I have coffee in the morning, we do our crosswords, go for walks, watch our shows, eat our baked goods together, visit local breweries and restaurants. We talk about the news and the weather, how each of our days went and my plans for the near future. All jokes about living with your parents and not having a job aside, I love being around my mom and dad.
I guess it is true what they say about how people turn a house into a home, and boy is there no place like home.
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