By the time I publish this post, our 1952 brick ranch on a busy Decatur corner will belong to someone else.
We have lived here for 12 years – longer than I have lived in any one place my entire life. We moved in with two cats, a toddler and a newborn and are leaving with two dogs, a teenager and an almost-teen.
I would be lying if I said that we never thought we’d move. We never really planned for this to be our “forever home.”
We didn’t like the busy road out front. The kitchen was (and still is) old and outdated. By modern American standards, its 1,400 square feet feel small.
But we moved in and met the cool neighbors who all watched out for each others’ kids and yards and Amazon deliveries.
When my kids were small and hated to sleep, I learned to listen for the sounds of the cars rolling by in the morning to see how long I had before sunrise. At five a.m., the sound is almost like waves crashing against a beach. Almost.
By six a.m., the MARTA buses and CLIF shuttles to Emory have kicked things up a notch and I know it’s time to get everyone up.
The years just kind of flew by.
My kids learned to walk in these old rooms, then ride bikes on the neighborhood streets. I’ve known many of their friends from the time they were in preschool to seeing some of them getting their learner’s permit.
We’ve baked over a decade’s worth of Christmas cookies and Thanksgiving turkeys in the old kitchen. I’ve planted fruit trees, berry bushes and more all over our lot.
This house has kept us all safe and dry through tornadoes, torrential rains, and one two-week long ice storm – not to mention lockdown.
Our next destination and the reasons for it belong in their own post. But I wanted to take a moment out of the hectic packing and planning for the future and appreciate what has been before we go.
It has been a wonderful home for us and I hope it will be for its new people.