Memories of a home...make it more than just a house

I grew up in a small town in Indiana – Greencastle, In.  When I was a child, the population hovered around 10,000 people.   Today, it is much the same.  The first home I remember was in Greencastle at 409 Meadow Dr.  It was a tiny 3-bedroom, 1.5 bath home that may have totaled 800 square feet without counting the basement.  The basement was not finished, but it was where my mom did laundry, stored food, Dad stored his tools, and even the lawn mower!  It was also where my brother and I played during the cold winter months.  I have so many fond memories in that little home, and the tiny kitchen where my mother managed to whip up delicious smells that would greet me when I came home from school.

The school – Northeast Elementary – was located about 4 blocks away.  The neighborhood kids and I walked to school most mornings, and Mom could see us from the front porch most of the way.  We would take a short-cut through the Army National Guard parking lot that was on the corner, and cut beside the Little League baseball field.  We loved to dawdle in the field on our way home, which occasionally got us into trouble with the parents who were waiting for us!

That little house held so many happy memories!  Like my 6-year old birthday party that we held in the basement.  Mom let me invite my entire kindergarten class, as well as several of our family friends from the church we attended.  I know she made the chocolate cake, and probably the sloppy joes we ate.  It was nothing fancy, but we had so much fun and left me with a wonderful memory. 

This was the home where I last kissed my little brother, Reid Leslie IV, good-bye before he passed away at the age of 6 from a heart condition.  It was the same home that I met my younger brother, Ryan Lee Leslie, when my parents brought him into our home to be adopted.   He was 18 months old, and I was 9.  I thought Mom was babysitting when Ryan was standing at the front door that afternoon as I busted through from my day in 3rd grade.  My parents were able to complete the adoption process about a year later.   That was about 39 years ago.

I remember when Dad worked with our friend, Cliff Scobee, to put a new roof on that little house.  I also remember when he painted the house green.  I also remember new carpet, wallpaper, new kitchen cabinets…..  I think we lived in that little house about 9 years.  My parents had a sense of pride in their home because it was indeed our home.  The size of the house did not really matter.  It was a place filled with love, laughter, sometimes tears – but definitely a lot of memories.

When I was 11 years old, Mom and Dad purchased an old house at 601 Highwood, less than a mile from our little house on Meadow Dr.  It was a huge upgrade for us, more than doubling the house size from 800 square feet to about 2400 square feet.  It was an old house in every sense of the word.  Within a short amount of time, my parents tore into the remodeling.  They were not skilled at this necessarily, but did the work themselves because that was what they could afford to do.  We all joined in the efforts of stripping the dozens of layers of old wallpaper off the walls and even the ceilings.  Dad painted, wallpapered, textured, and my mom scrubbed, and, stripped wallpaper and even the old layers of paint and lacquer off the stair railings.   

Many sleep-overs, youth parties, birthday parties and family gatherings took place in that old house.  At the kitchen table, dinner was served rather promptly between 5 and 6 p.m. every single weeknight.  Sunday mornings, we enjoyed breakfast together before heading out the door to church.   The big Maple tree on the side yard held a swing where my brother, Ryan, and his friends loved to play.  We raked many, many leaves in that yard, and shoveled a lot of snow out of that drive.  We helped the elderly neighbors, Estelle Hall and Mary Glenn Hamilton, who lived beside us and across the street.  They were wonderful neighbors.  I remember Dad leaving the front porch light on when I had a date to make sure we knew he could be watching from the living room window. 

When I went off to college, I never dreamed that I would not come “home” to that old house.  It was just a fact, as far as I was concerned, that my parents would always live there, and someday I would bring my own children to visit them there.   When IBM closed the local plant and transferred Dad to Maryland, we all mourned saying good-bye to the old house.  Even today, when I visit Greencastle, I have a heaviness in my heart when I drive by the old house.  It was a great house with beautiful memories!

So, why is this all so important to me today?  Well, I am in the business of helping people buy and sell homes.  Sometimes when a seller is moving, there is a great deal of emotion.  They are saying good-bye to a place where they brought home their children as babies; where they saw them take their first steps.  Or where they have so many other memories that are hard to let go of.

It is important that I never lose sight of the emotion that can be associated with a home.  It is more than just another transaction for me.  It is helping people move to another place in life.  And being empathetic to the raw emotions that can be associated with saying good-bye to a home is so important. 

I recognize that this is not always the case.  We live in a very transient society – especially where my market is in the suburbs of Houston, TX.   Sometimes sellers do not have the time to get attached to a house – and that is certainly okay too.  But when I do come across a seller who is having trouble saying good-bye to a home, I want them to know I care.  Sometimes a home really is more than sticks and bricks.   Sometimes a home has a heart.