“The Waltons” was a television program that debuted in September of 1972. It ran for nine seasons, and my wife and I never missed. It was about a family who lived and worked on their land in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia during the Great Depression. There were seven children, the parents, and the grandparents – three generations under the same roof. At the end of each episode there was a view of the farmhouse, and you could hear the voice-overs of the family members as the light faded.
“G’night Momma”
“Good night John Boy”
“G’night Grampa”
“Good night Ellen”
o o o o o
After forty-two years in the same house, with loving prompts from our grown children, we decided to scale down. We took some of the proceeds from our sale and contributed to the purchase of a house where we would live together with our youngest daughter, our son-in-law, and their family. We now reside cheek by jowl with them and their three boys, under the same roof, but in our own apartment. Going from 1,900 square feet and four bedrooms to 600 square feet and one bedroom was a major adjustment. But it does not feel all that cramped because: we frequently spend time at their dinner table, we have whole family movie nights, and we have easy access to the pool and patio.
Reactions to this major life move were mixed among our family and friends. We got a lot of advice, some of which was requested. We got many cautions about living with our offspring. Some people thought we were just nuts, as in … “We could never do that!”
However, we were steadfast. We knew this was to be the true course of our lives, but it was not an easy thing to do. Two and one-half years elapsed, and lots of upheaval took place, from the first conversation with our children about this move until we were finally ensconced in our new home. If you have ever sold a house and made such a move, you know what that is like. Our realtor team told us it would be one of the most difficult seasons of our life, and they were right.
There were improvements to give the house “curb appeal” in a competitive housing market. The fix-up cost more and took longer than we planned, and in between it was a mess. We listed the house, and nineteen families came by to visit, all by appointment. We had to vacate each time. We had an offer and opened an escrow, but it fell through. More visits. When we finally made the deal, the escrow experience was laughable. It had been decades since we first bought the house, and oh, the changes and legal requirements! There was writer’s cramp from signing on scores of documents.
Then came the move. Man-o-man, that was tough.
The Garage
If you have lived in your home for forty years, what does your garage look like? Ours wasn’t terribly messy, and we could still get a car in there; but it was a tight fit, because we had refused to get rid of anything. Instead of winnowing from time to time, we kept adding more storage cabinets. Does any of this sound familiar?
When the time came, it was very painful to give away — or throw away — a lifetime of stuff. Yet, it was also a great blessing. We donated much of the physical evidence of our history to several charities. For months we filled the shelves of “Second Story,” a boutique thrift-shop whose proceeds support a ministry which rescues children worldwide from the bondage of sexual slavery.
What was not usable for donations went into the dumpster. You know the one. It is six feet long, four feet wide, and four feet deep. It is made of steel of the thickness that would protect a Sherman tank, and it is a hideous green. The dumpster people drop it at your curb, you fill it up, and they take it away a week later.
Fill it up we did, and not just one dumpster! You cannot believe how many boxes in how many cupboards contained stuff that we had not looked at in thirty years. Not until dumpster time, did we wake up to the realization that nobody wanted most of that stuff anyway. We had a few tender moments as we and our daughters stood around the dumpster and ceremoniously bade farewell to the campfire coffee pot, my mother’s three foot chicken-wire Christmas tree, and the Betamax version of “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.”
The House
The house was never lovelier than when we spruced it up for sale; and moving away was an occasion for real grief. We miss those friends and neighbors. We miss our rose garden and the generous lemon tree. We miss the spreading front porch with its railing and the Adirondack chairs where we could sit together of an evening, sip on lemonade and watch the people pass by, walking their dogs.
We do not have room in our new house for many souvenirs, but we do have hanging on our kitchen wall a framed, watercolor rendering of our longtime family home on Citronella Street. This cherished piece of artwork was a housewarming present from our daughter, welcoming us to our new home.
We do not regret our move. We gave up a lot, but we gained even more. Our new neighbors are welcoming and generous. There is a gaggle of a dozen kids in the cul-de-sac who will be our grandsons’ friends and playmates for years to come — with bikes and kites and sparklers on the 4th of July. Our garden space is limited, so our herbs and tomatoes and flowers are growing in pots.
We have been pruned way back. As a result, there is some abundant new growth in us.
The timing was perfect. If Liza and I were still in our old house during the Covid pandemic, it would have been unbearably lonesome and challenging. But we are all sequestered together now. If either of us had died while still living in the old place, the process would have been doubly painful for the surviving spouse. If we both passed away at the same time, it would have been overwhelming for our adult children to deal with it all.
God closes some doors and opens others. We are content in our new digs. It can be exhausting to be around three rambunctious little boys. But at the end of the day – literally at the end of every day as the light is fading, we have three little space invaders knocking on our door. They burst in with their hair still damp from the bath, in their super-hero jammies, coming to get a hug and a story.
G’night Gramma.
G’night Poppa.
Good night boys.
Tidings from Tim 