One day in September of 1995, I vowed to make every effort to not get emotionally attached to my house. This promise was the result of a very painful day — the day Grandma Mamie had to move out of her house. —It was one of the worst days of my life.—
The family had decided that Grandma, Dad’s mother, couldn’t live alone any longer. On moving day, I went with my parents to give Grandma support, and to face the changes we were all experiencing. She had a room and bed assignment in a nearby adult home, and they were awaiting her arrival. Although she had Alzheimer’s, it was an early enough stage for her to understand what was going on.
Grandma Mamie loved her home, especially her kitchen and patio. These areas were the heartbeat of her life. Anyone who showed up was lovingly forced to eat and drink something, and sit and visit. She was a master of this art, and no one was immune to her hospitality.
Her home was a natural extension of her kindness; a valuable tool for welcoming and socializing. When we told her she had to move that day, she sat down at her beloved kitchen table and cried. (I’m teary just writing this). Her reaction affected me deeply. It reminded me of who she was and what she meant to so many people. It provided me with a great lesson about how life goes. — Nothing lasts forever.—
When Brian and I learned that we were moving from our home, I worried about how the detachment would affect me. It was a test of the lesson I vowed to learn so many years ago. I’m happy to say that the self-imposed assignment worked. I don’t miss our physical house at all. I’ve been there several times since the move, and feel no significant emotional attachment to the house.
I can’t say the same for our neighbors. Human relationships are vastly more important and meaningful than material things. I miss our great neighbors, and plan to keep in touch as time allows.
But home is where the heart is…so I will always be home, wherever that may be.