A Forest Grew

I still remember my revulsion to the house I ended up buying when I was 25.

The place was owned by a lady in her 90s. And although her family had moved her out by the time my realtor and I looked at the property, her shadow loomed large:

Floral wallpaper. Blue carpet. Innumerable hooks in the ceiling for hanging baskets.

If I hadn’t known the house was owned by a nonagenarian woman, that’s what I would have surmised after touring the place. I felt like I’d stumbled onto the set of “The Golden Girls.” And that’s fitting… because the house was built in 1986, when that show was on the air.

Suffice it to say, I had little interest in the property. How could I? I just couldn’t picture myself – a dude in his 20s – living there.

My parents, however, had a different perspective. As experienced homeowners, they had the capacity to see past the house’s condition, envision what it could become, and articulate that vision to me.

They won me over. And I’m glad they did. Because on the other side of the house’s vinyl “Murder, She Wrote” blinds – literally the same kind Angela Lansbury peered through to spy on her neighborhood – was a place that could usher me into adulthood in all the ways I’d hoped.

My first goal for the house? Use it to find a girlfriend! At that time, I was in the same place JD’s character was in Season 5 of “Scrubs.” Which is to say, being single had run its course for me and I was ready to get into a serious relationship. Living on my own, as compared to with my parents, would go a long way toward making that happen.

But when would it happen? As it turns out, far sooner than I ever could’ve dreamed. Eight months into living at the house, I met someone. We started dating. And four terrific years later, we got married.

Over the course of those years, and in the ones that followed, the house was the backdrop for countless good memories with my wife: supportive conversations, Christmas gift exchanges, relaxing movie nights, and more. Each of those memories became a brick in the foundation of our relationship, making it possible for us to build a life together – first as boyfriend and girlfriend, then as fiancé and fiancée, and finally as husband and wife.

Ultimately, the house didn’t just facilitate our relationship, it nurtured it.

Because of that, in time, my wife and I were ready to take the next step in our relationship and start a family. While the house was small, it wasn’t so small that it couldn’t accommodate another person, thankfully. So, we set our sights on our spare bedroom and prepared our home to become our son’s home, too.

And just as the house was a setting for good memories between my wife and I, it went on to do the same for us and our son. It’s the place we paced at night, rocking him back to sleep in our arms; it’s where we bathed him, first atop a baby seat in the tub and later in a cacophony of bubbles and rubber duckies; and it’s the spot we witnessed all those cherished first-year milestones, from him saying our names to learning how to walk.

I’ll always be grateful the house was big enough to bring my son home to. Nothing changes your life quite like deciding to start a family. Getting to digest all of that change in familiar environs made the whole process that much smoother.

By the time my son turned 1, I’d been living in the house for over seven years. And the place that had once exceeded my needs, from a size standpoint, when I was single, had swiftly gotten smaller with the addition of two other people. So, not long after my son’s birthday, my wife and I decided that the time had come to start looking for a new home that could meet our needs, now and into the future.

As I took stock of the current house, seeing it through the eyes of not-far-off prospective buyers, I was pleased by what I saw. The place’s “Golden Girls” aesthetic – not to mention the “Murder, She Wrote” blinds – were long gone. By and large, it looked like a contemporary home.

It was fulfilling getting the joint to that point. Throughout my ownership of it, I knew I could always count on my parents and in-laws to help me make improvements. I was grateful for their help, not just because of their expertise, but because I lacked expertise. For a long time, I was intimidated by even the simplest of tasks, like hanging pictures. I was certain I’d find a way to screw things up.

But becoming a competent homeowner is like anything else in life – it’s achievable, with practice. And once I realized that the most expedient way to get something done was to do it myself, I got plenty of practice. In time, my hammer, drill, and tape measure ceased to be objects that I avoided. With each shelf mounted, each window covering installed, and, yes, each picture hung, came confidence and – just as importantly – satisfaction.

Growing into the role of a homeowner was something that benefitted that house and will benefit my new one, too.

Of the improvement projects I undertook, my favorite was renovating the aforementioned spare bedroom into my son’s room. Alongside my wife, with an assist from my father-in-law, we transformed the space from the most nondescript room in the house to a cheery, narwhal-themed nursery.

One night in April, my wife, son, and I were sitting in that room, reading books as part of the little guy’s bedtime routine. I had pulled “Where The Wild Things Are” off the book rack and was reading aloud from the Maurice Sendak classic. One passage in particular resonated with me:

“That very night in Max’s room a forest grew… and grew… and grew… until his ceiling hung with vines and the walls became the world all around.”

I detected a parallel to my own life. Max had stepped into a room and his whole world changed; I had stepped into a house and my whole world changed.

A few weeks later, my son’s room, along with every other room in the house, was empty. My family and I had moved out, bound for our new place.

While I’m no longer in that house, I’m still in the forest that grew there. The forest is my life. And I’ll be there the rest of my days.