Four years ago, I was still in a bar exam fog. I graduated in May, started bar review classes within days, studied really hard starting July 4th, got the massage of a lifetime on Monday and then sat through two days of hell on Tuesday and Wednesday. Thursday, I finished packing up my apartment. Friday, August 1, 2003, a truck arrived in Macon bright and early and I left that town for the second time in my life to begin anew.
The previous year had been hard--very hard. On top of the hives/steroid weight, I had added another 10 pounds of Big Firm Summer Associate lunches weight. I had lost confidence in my scholastic abilities and interviewing prowess. Therefore, when I got a call from an old family friend offering me a job practicing with she and her husband I jumped at the chance. I was determined that the payoff for living in this small town in metro Atlanta (as opposed to my plan to return to my beloved DC) would be owning a house.
My mom had been kind enough to drive down and scope out the market so that I didn't have to waste precious study time to do so. She narrowed my choices down to three and I took one afternoon to come check them out personally. It was clear to me which one I wanted.
My house was built in the 30's and had lots of hidden potential. It had been a rental house for several years before the previous owner purchased it. She had made some changes (most of which I hated), but it was mostly covered in ugly carpet, linoleum and wallpaper and sporting 11 long feet of white Formica in the kitchen. The driveway was completely washed out when my mom first looked at it, but the lot and the house were the perfect size for me.
My parents, of course, were right there with me that muggy August morning when I watched the truck being loaded. I didn't have the experience of standing and watching the truck pull away since Mom and I drove on ahead to the new house. That didn't stop me from taking a minute to remember the scene 3 short months earlier of watching A's caravan of U-Hauls and family cars pull away while I stood on the porch crying and waving. There was no one there to see me off that morning--just lots of memories.
In the four years I've lived in it, I've built two fences, paved the driveway, pulled up the awful carpet, linoleum and Formica, re-roofed it and painted. I've tried to unearth the character and beauty that got covered up from years of renters and people without a vested interest in things. I've planted and tilled and transplanted and watered. My dad and I (and even my mom one Saturday) have left plenty of sweat in the yard. And I love it. I love my little house. I wish I could pick it up and take it with me when I go.
I think I knew I had to go the day that a client told me she grew up across the street. She said that a little old lady lived in my house and she always baked cookies for the neighborhood kids. Since I'm not 87 and I own an 80 pound dog and NO CATS, I'm fighting hard against fulfilling the destiny of a one bathroom house in my little town. I can feel the lure of it sucking me in and urging me to stay. After encountering a feeble mouse or baby rat yesterday morning while watering, I've even contemplated getting a cat.
It's definitely time to move on.
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