Walking the Catacombs: My Parents are Selling My Childhood Home

Summary

The author is reminiscing about their childhood home, which their parents are selling after 45 years, and reflects on the emotional process of sifting through accumulated memories and possessions.

Abstract

The author's parents are selling their family home of over 40 years, prompting a walk down memory lane as the author sorts through a lifetime of accumulated belongings. The house, filled with cherished memories from 1980 to 2004, has witnessed family movie nights, teenage escapades, and the author's first experiences with adulthood. While some memories are wholesome, like decorating the Christmas tree and watching the family cat's antics, others are more personal, such as learning to drink beer stealthily and the author's first time masturbating. The author anticipates a future visit to the home, nostalgic for the snowy nights and the familiarity of every inch of the structure, including the unexpected discovery of their mother's lingerie drawer. The process of saying goodbye to the house is bittersweet, with the author expressing gratitude for the chance to bid farewell and hoping the new owners will create their own joyful memories, perhaps even encountering a snowy tribute to "El Guapo."

Opinions

The author has mixed emotions about the sale of their childhood home, with the process being both somber and nostalgic.
They find humor in the family tradition of tempting the cat with a shiny ornament during Christmas decoration, despite knowing the predictable outcome.
The author reflects on the innocence of youth and the discovery of adult experiences within the home's walls.
There is a sense of gratitude for the stability and memories provided by the long-term family home.
The author cherishes the opportunity for a final farewell to the house and all its memories, suggesting a deep emotional attachment.
They hope the new owners will appreciate and enjoy the home as much as their family did, and perhaps share a sense of humor about the playful "El Guapo" snow message.

After 40+ years, there’s a lot of crap to rummage through

After 45 years, my parents are selling the house in which I was raised. I have had the somber task of rooting through the stuff they have accumulated over the years, plucking out whatever useful/meaningful items that are left. It was emotional, to say the least. I had no idea how much crap from my youth that they had retained.

I was there from 1980 to 2004, so that old split-level holds a lot of cherished memories. I remember family movie nights, especially the one when my mother rented Philadelphia (renting from Blockbuster was still a thing at the time), thinking that any Tom Hanks movie would be as fun as A League of Their Own.

It wasn’t.

I learned how to hide beer under my bed, and stealthily consume it after everyone else went to sleep.

If you want to learn how to silently open a can of mattress-warmed Coors light, I’m your guy.

Like any teenager, I masturbated, and that house hosted my first go-round. The output outperformed what I had anticipated, and I briefly considered calling some of the fellows that worked the Chernobyl disaster re: tips on containment.

Certainly, there are far more wholesome memories. Those tales are mostly boring to outsiders. I will, however, tack this one on: When decorating the Christmas tree every year, someone would place a shiny ornament on the lowest branch to goad one of the cats into attacking it. This is how it went:

Mittens: “Well, they put it there again. I guess they want me to savage it…”

A parent, after Mittens significantly degraded the structural integrity of the ornament: “Mittens! You silly kitty! Leave that catnip-laced ornament alone!”

Me: “What the hell did you think would happen? We do this every year…”

The house is all but gone. I like to imagine, in the future, parking at the end of the street — my parents did not live in a gated community — and taking a look at my childhood homestead. Maybe, if I am lucky, I can catch a snowy night. After sunset, I can romp through the yard like I did as a child. When morning breaks, the new owners will look out in wonderment: “Why are there so many footprints in our yard? How did those snow angels get there? That is an exceptional amount of yellow snow!”

I’m lucky to have had the same home until fate (got a real job) and age (24) booted me out and sent me to the suburbs of Washington, DC. I know every inch of that structure. I even know where my mother’s lingerie drawer is — I came upon it decades ago when (honestly) looking for where my parents stored the cat toys. Apparently, my mom wears bras.

I am also lucky to have had the chance to get a “farewell tour”, where I could take some time and just sit and think about the wholesome things that you probably don’t care to read about. (Full disclosure: there were a few moments of “I’m pretty sure the statute of limitations has run out for that…and who would want to prosecute someone for throwing a snowball at a school bus anyways?”.)

Fare thee well, childhood home. I sincerely hope that your new owners enjoy you. I hope that they have good, memorable, times in you (that sounded eerily sexual).

And, I hope that they wake up one February morning and see that someone has peed “El Guapo” into freshly fallen snow.