A childhood home is often considered a more magical place once you move out. When I first left for college, I gladly declared my freedom from household rules and regulations that I was previously forced to follow. But that soon changed.
Within months, I eagerly anticipated trips home to Spokane, Wash. A full refrigerator, clean bedding and perhaps Mom would fork over some spending cash when I departed. There was also a feeling of stability and nostalgia when I put my suitcase next to the bed I had slept in growing up. It was like popping an all-natural, anti-anxiety pill.
So, when Mom called to tell me that she and Dad had sold the house, I initially lied by telling her how happy I was. She had wanted to sell it for some time, years really. Her kids are all long gone. The house is too big for two people. And she never did like the split entrance.
My parents have worked hard, and still do. They deserve to live wherever they want. But neither expected the house to sell so quickly – you know, with the real estate market and all. But it did, in just a few weeks, and now they’re renting and this will be the first time in 20 years that the family won’t be gathering at the Sundown Drive split-level for the holidays, the best time of year to be there.
My younger sister is taking the news the hardest, since she basically spent the entirety of her childhood in that place. She has a knack for the dramatic and cried upon hearing the news. It is sad, really – the house was the perfect place to escape the real world. But now it’s gone. We’re cut off from that sanctuary.
This is, apparently, a common reaction among adult children when such a move happens. True, it’s at once pathetic and a bit selfish. None of us actually had any ownership in the house. And we should be happy that our parents still have the freedom of mobility, when so many others in this economy have been forced from their homes because they can no longer pay the mortgage.
As columnist Cary Tennis told a complaining “childhood-home-less” reader seeking advice: “The house is not yours. It’s as simple as that. Maybe you thought it would be yours, and maybe it could have been yours if things had turned out differently, but no.”
Meanwhile, more adult children have simply never left or they have returned to the friendly confines of their childhood homes. Earlier this month, the U.S. Census Bureau released a study that found the number of 25- to 34-year-olds living with mom and dad has ticked up since 2005, especially among men. In that time, the number of young men who live at home has risen from 14 to 19 percent and the number of young women is up from 8 to 10 percent. While the bleak job market forces many of these circumstances, it’s only partially to blame since the increase began long before the recession.
And those who do move out, miss it.
For me, my childhood home first calls to mind the aroma wafting from the kitchen. Around the holidays, Mom always had something in the oven, something I could never attempt to create. And then there were the wide-ranging discussions with Dad about our favorite teams and why we had the perfect formula for their future successes.
In the end, the magic of that place always had a lot more to do with the people in it than the actual residence.
Happy Thanksgiving.