In the process of selling our house, my husband and I forgot one tiny little detail, namely the part where you buy another house, so you have somewhere to move to. It’s not like we weren’t looking, we just haven’t had much luck. So when the people buying our house called last week and said the bank would be ready to close on Thursday, we were a little surprised and entirely unprepared.
It’s been a busy weekend. We tried to find time to pack, but between the rehearsal dinner, and the bachelorette slumber party (not nearly as entertaining as it sounds) leading up to my little sister’s wedding (far more entertaining than it sounds) and the Memorial Day festivities and my niece’s third birthday party, we just couldn’t find the time.
So, yesterday we frantically packed up all of our worldly possessions - mostly shoes and hair supplies - and moved into the “other house.” Not every family is lucky enough to have an “other house,” but my parents always kept a spare in case they eventually came to the conclusion that they couldn’t stand each other. (They eventually did come to that conclusion, but the “extra house” was way too close to the regular house, so it remains unoccupied.)
Just kidding, kind of. My grandparents lived in the house until the early 1990’s when they decided to move to Florida. I basically grew up in the “other house,” because when your parents have five daughters, they try to farm you out as much as possible in order to keep their sanity. Once my grandparents moved to Florida, the house became used for any family member who needed a place to stay. I know it’s strange, especially since I have stayed in the “extra house” countless times as a child, have lived there twice and have visited every relative you can imagine who was at one time occupying the house, but I still get a little freaked out when I’m there by myself.
Maybe it’s because my mean sisters told me all kinds of scary stories when I was little (as it turns out there’s no such thing as the Green-Bean Man) or because I’ve always had a wild imagination, but last night, as we spent our first night at the cabin, I couldn’t sleep a wink. Even with my husband and my loyal, but entirely evil and sinister, dogs with me, I couldn’t help but jump at every noise and imagine the worst in every situation. The dogs barked at everything, anything and many times absolutely nothing at random points throughout the night, and every time the house creaked or the wind blew, I imagined some unthinkable thing was about to pop out of a dark corner. I know I should have outgrown such silly fears, but no such luck.
The house sits atop a hill several hundred feet from the road, coyotes howl and dogs bark and scary things could be taking place at any time and no one would be able to hear your screams, but even though the house often freaks me out more than I’d like to admit, I’m thinking about making the move permanent, because even if the boogie man does live in that oh-so-spooky basement, I’d rather deal with him than have to move all that stuff again.