Next month my parents are moving out of the house they've live in for the last 37 years and I'm very sad I can't be there to help them. The house is more than 300 years old. It has some walls that are as thick as I am tall, no central heating, no double glazing and comes with a shed the size of a barn and a cellar that is frigid and a perfect home for zombies. When I was a little girl I remember my dad putting a few cans of baked beans down there incase of nuclear fallout. We'd have all died of baked bean poisoning before the radiation got us.
They're staying in the same town but it is hard to say goodbye to the place where you grew up. I guess most people don't have that connection anymore anyway.
We moved there when I was six and I have such vivid memories of growing up there. Of riding my bike over jumps in the garden. Of our tortoises, guinea pigs and (27) rabbits in the garden. Of me collecting snails and storing them in the shed. Of our rabid bantam cockerel who wouldn't let you go in the pen without a fight. There was our old dog, Pal, who lived until he was 21. He made Houdini look like a 2-bit chump, got run over twice, bitten in the jugular once and fathered an embarrassing number of puppies with KK registered bitches.Then there was shooting practice with my dad's airguns, and a few teenage parties--one where my brother's friends literally came through the roof of my bedroom.
There were things about that house I hated and things I loved and I'm so glad mom and dad are downsizing but so sad I won't be able to visit one last time before they move. The move won't be easy considering they are kleptomaniacs and are moving from a six bedroom house to a 3 bedroom semi. I always thought I'd be able to help hump boxes and pack stuff.
Living so far from home is hard sometimes...poor me *rolls eyes at self*