“It’s just stuff,” said my friend. “You can’t take it with you.”

The “stuff” being mentioned didn’t include only the movable items that usually come under the “stuff” heading; the furniture, appliances, tools and other possessions that are scattered and stored everywhere. It also included the house itself. In the end, a house is just another piece of “stuff,” he asserted.

Circumstances are dictating that I put the house on the market, hence my good-intentioned friend’s desire to have me classify it as just another piece of “stuff.” I’m not sure I can fully accept such an emotionless approach to something that, for a fellow who comes up short on the Zen enlightenment scale, serves as a foundation, a marker of existence and proof of accomplishment.

But people sell houses all the time. In the end, a house – even an old one that’s been under restoration – is like pretty much everything else: a temporarily-bound collection of raw materials destined to change and change hands.

Old Walls Echo The Trampoline Giggles

This one served its purpose: It was a home where children were raised, pets were given shelter and burial, friends were entertained. Life was lived within its old walls (and inside them by heat-seeking rodents). On its patch of tilted lawn countless softballs were pitched, lacrosse balls were flung, sticks were chewed by dogs. Perimeter patches of ground were tilled and flowers were grown.

Christmas days, Thanksgiving dinners, Easter egg hunts, the highs and lows of marriage and family – the “stuff” of life – had a unique place to happen here. The yard echoed, and still does on sunny, warm days, with the laughter of kids in the pool and on the trampoline or swingset.

OK. So innumerable days were spent, and still are being spent, doing the hard work of removing layers of caked-on old paint, replacing rotted window sills and broken panes, tightening slates, mowing grass, painting/painting/repainting, sanding and hammering. I don’t think the effort was wasted time or wasted money even if it doesn’t equate into any meaningful increase in property value.

Despite periodic bouts of frustration and weariness (and a realization that the job would never be finished) the time spent fixing the old house brought pride, purpose, experience and honor. It enriched my soul even as it stole time that could have been spent on more relaxing endeavors.

I wanted the house to be perfect before putting it on the market. Clearly, that’s not going to happen. I can only say that some parts, especially the exterior walls, are in a lot better shape now than they were then. They weren’t sealed in vinyl siding. They were treated with respect.

I just have to stop worrying whether the next owners will do the same. I realize they might not. In fact, they might bulldoze the old girl. That, like the passing of time, is out of my hands.