I’m not sure what I’m about to walk into, but there’s a good chance I’m going to cry.
I am going to my parents’ house — my former home — this weekend to help them pack to move. They’re downsizing after 35 years.
My mom has talked about it for more than a year. The big yard with tons of old trees is too much for them to take care of now. My dad used to grow a garden full of tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, peas, sunflowers and zinnias, but when he was diagnosed with pulmonary hypertension a few years ago, he stopped.
But I didn’t really think they’d ever leave. My dad loves to ride his lawnmower around the yard; he has a shop with the radio tuned to country music where he can hang out, i.e., get away when the house is full of us loud mouths.
Although we didn’t move there until I was in college, I lived at home for a while. It’s the place I brought home guys — including my husband — to meet my parents, sneaked kisses on the couch while my younger brother sometimes spied, and celebrated countless birthdays and Christmases. We sat nervously in the basement a few times when the weatherman warned us.
We shot fireworks in the yard, with sometimes disastrous results (one old boyfriend almost burned down the place), played wiffle ball and basketball, and my favorite was just sitting in a lawn chair with a glass of tea, talking to my family.
My dad has pulled my boys a thousand miles around that yard in their little red wagon.
When Mom told me they were looking at houses, I still didn’t think they’d actually do it.
But they found the one. Mom sent a text: “Don’t faint, but Dad is ready to move.” I almost fainted.
It’s only about a mile from their house now, and it’s a little smaller — the yard is much smaller with no trees, no leaves, less maintenance. It has a perfect place for Dad’s lawnmower and my 5-year-old nephew’s motorized John Deere.
It’s decades newer than their current house; it has a screened-in porch and a great kitchen for dad, when he feels like cooking his wonderful meals.
They got a great deal on it, too. It all happened fast. When my mom sent my brother and me a text that the offer was accepted, my brother wrote: “Wait, did Tammy and I approve this?” I responded, “Slow down — I can’t breathe!”
I was kidding — sort of.
My brother and I don’t like change, and we’re sentimental. We know it’s the right thing to do, and we’re happy for them. But I find myself getting teary-eyed about it out of the blue.
I know it could be much worse — we could be moving them into assisted living or a nursing home. I have young parents, and my mom’s social calendar is busier than mine ever was.
She’s started going through drawers and closets, and she sends pictures of her finds — a photo of my handsome, skinny, young dad in his high school yearbook, a yellowed newspaper clipping from The Piggott Times of my fourth birthday party, her first-grade school picture, the outfit she wore to my brother’s medical-school graduation.
She’s going to get rid of the twin beds she grew up in that I slept in as a child at my Nano and Granddaddy’s house, as well as other treasures that she won’t have room for in the new house.
Mom sent me a text with a picture of Dad and her right after they signed the
paperwork, and they looked so happy, like newlyweds getting their first home. It made me happy for them.
Then why am I crying? It’s change. It’s hard. It’s good, and it’s necessary.
The wood, mortar and shingles are different, but I know home is much more than that. My mother reminded me of a kitchen towel I got her that had embroidered on it, “Home is where your mother is.”
We will adjust. Our crazy, funny, loving family will make new memories, and it will be home again.
I’ve got my car packed with empty boxes (and a box of Kleenex), and I’m on my way.
Let’s get this packing party started. It’s time.
Staff writer Tammy Keith can be reached at (501) 327-0370 or tkeith@arkansasonline.com.