My favorite birthday present
Dec. 7th, 2003 07:42 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
anigoThe only fools in life are those that never leave their shell to realize the lightness of being.
When I was younger, I knew what kind of house I wanted when I grew up. I had the image firmly planted in my mind. It was a big old Victorian rambly thing, with gables and a wrap-around porch. It was on a cliff over looking the ocean with wildflowers and such. Ah, yes, I can see it even now.
As I grew older I lived in lots of places, a cave, a palace, a trailer and so many others too numerous to mention, but I always kept my eye out for the Victorian place. Some days I'd actually go looking for it, other days I'd drive by something that I thought might be it, but never did I come across *my* house.
When I was leaving my childhood and entering into the realm of being a grown-up, I came across this little three bedroom bungalow. It was reasonably priced and had lots of potential - so I bought it. Now, 15 years later, I'm still living in my bungalow. It's just about paid for, and I've
put quite a bit of work into it - I'm quite proud of it, actually. It's nice and warm and has stamps of my personality throughout. But every once in a while, sometimes for no reason, the thoughts of the old Victorian place
pop into my mind. Somedays they're nothing but a fleeting thought, other days the longing for the smell of the ocean is so strong it almost makes me want to weep.
Truthfully, there are no perfect houses. My perfect house doesn't exist. I might think I've come across the perfect house but in reality the basement probably floods, or the heating would cost me a fortune.
I've considered renting a victorian place for a weekend or two, but there are concequences... Maybe I'll really love a victorian rental that I could never have.
Every once in a while I'll surprise myself and come across a house that might be *the* house, but I keep telling myself that either it's not on the market, or there are probably spiders in the basement. I'm afraid that one of these days I might actually find the house, then I'll need to consider
selling this one.
I've told this story to a select number of people. Some understand it, some don't.
Friday, the day before my birthday, a package arrives in the mail for me. It's a Christmas present, but through a couple of odd twists of fate it arrives on the day before my birthday. It is covered with threats about how it will turn into oatmeal if I open it before Christmas, but on Saturday the sender is so excited she wants me to open it right away. It's a picture that she'd found that had once belonged to her mother. It has a picture of a house on a beach with a wrap around porch. And written on it is:
If my dreams could all come true
Paradise would be
In a little bungalow
Somewhere
By the sea
When I was younger, I knew what kind of house I wanted when I grew up. I had the image firmly planted in my mind. It was a big old Victorian rambly thing, with gables and a wrap-around porch. It was on a cliff over looking the ocean with wildflowers and such. Ah, yes, I can see it even now.
As I grew older I lived in lots of places, a cave, a palace, a trailer and so many others too numerous to mention, but I always kept my eye out for the Victorian place. Some days I'd actually go looking for it, other days I'd drive by something that I thought might be it, but never did I come across *my* house.
When I was leaving my childhood and entering into the realm of being a grown-up, I came across this little three bedroom bungalow. It was reasonably priced and had lots of potential - so I bought it. Now, 15 years later, I'm still living in my bungalow. It's just about paid for, and I've
put quite a bit of work into it - I'm quite proud of it, actually. It's nice and warm and has stamps of my personality throughout. But every once in a while, sometimes for no reason, the thoughts of the old Victorian place
pop into my mind. Somedays they're nothing but a fleeting thought, other days the longing for the smell of the ocean is so strong it almost makes me want to weep.
Truthfully, there are no perfect houses. My perfect house doesn't exist. I might think I've come across the perfect house but in reality the basement probably floods, or the heating would cost me a fortune.
I've considered renting a victorian place for a weekend or two, but there are concequences... Maybe I'll really love a victorian rental that I could never have.
Every once in a while I'll surprise myself and come across a house that might be *the* house, but I keep telling myself that either it's not on the market, or there are probably spiders in the basement. I'm afraid that one of these days I might actually find the house, then I'll need to consider
selling this one.
I've told this story to a select number of people. Some understand it, some don't.
Friday, the day before my birthday, a package arrives in the mail for me. It's a Christmas present, but through a couple of odd twists of fate it arrives on the day before my birthday. It is covered with threats about how it will turn into oatmeal if I open it before Christmas, but on Saturday the sender is so excited she wants me to open it right away. It's a picture that she'd found that had once belonged to her mother. It has a picture of a house on a beach with a wrap around porch. And written on it is:
If my dreams could all come true
Paradise would be
In a little bungalow
Somewhere
By the sea
