In January, I was as open minded as any skeptic could be. I agreed we needed the space and the wooded backyard would be excellent for the kids. I begrudgingly admitted that the school system had a great reputation. And I like to believe I am a woman of my word, so as I promised (unofficially in my wedding vows) I moved to my husband's rural hometown.
This move meant leaving the conveniences of city life and the luxury of my family's close proximity. But oh how it made my husband smile.
We settled in. Or so I tried.
I put the dishes in the cabinets. Hung my clothes in the closet. A few months later, we hung some towel bars in the bathroom and I hung a few towels. Several months later we had the bedrooms and bathrooms painted, with fresh, personality-filled colors. Many months later, we hung a single picture in the living room.
The kids played in back yard, then it rained and that wooded oasis, became a mud pit complete with two toddlers.
The neighbors weren't so friendly. In fact, it seemed people even went out of their way to not be friendly -- all except for their dogs who barked at us all night long.
I missed making a quick run to Whole Foods or Earth Fare, or anywhere really.
I missed my mama's drop ins.
And to top it all off, a few locals mentioned in hushed voices that our new home, "might have been the one where that young married couple died..." I mean, seriously?? -- luckily a Google search turned up nothing.
I really tried to see the good in our move. Really, I did, because I am a sucker for my husband's smile.
And while I was busy trying, I might have whined a little.
And as a good friend said, I might have worn him down, like the waves on the beach.
He conceded that the neighborhood was a disappointment. That as winter approached again, the backyard was headed underwater. Most of all, he acknowledged that I just wasn't happy. And he was willing to see that moving back to town, or at least away from here was a good idea.
I beamed with excitement. We made plans to list the house. We looked at listings back in town. We told our parents and some friends. I started making plans to take down that picture in the living room and stopped looking for a shower curtain that would match the new bathroom paint. He even brought home boxes from work so I could pack back up all the pictures we had yet to hang that were littering every empty square foot of our bedroom.
A few weeks later, we went to a 4 year-old's soccer game, at the local fields, less than ten minutes from our house. We saw familiar faces, were greeted with hugs and welcomes. Some of them were people we expected to see, others were not -- they were the pleasant surprises. There was a sense of welcoming and belonging I had not felt since our move.
As we walked to the car, our kids giddy from the excitement, I said "I have to say something that I can't believe I am going to say." I think my husband braced himself. And then smiled when I whispered, "ya know, I have to admit that was nice and I don't think we would have that in town."
I stopped looking at real estate listings. We never had our realtor run the comps on this house. Everything stalled.
Then, in passing, a neighbor confirmed for my husband that our house was "that house where that married couple died."
And for some reason, my husband told me.
My first instinct was to make my own "FOR SALE" sign with construction paper and markers and move to a hotel. But along with being good to my word, I like to think I am pretty level-headed.
So I accepted the fact and level-headedly debated what to do next.
But the fact ate at me. I needed to know what had happened.
Another Google search didn't shed any more light. So one night, just before Halloween, after my kids were tucked into bed, I texted a reporter friend to ask for some advice on how to find the facts -- with little information besides my own address. Together, her in Ohio and me in my bedroom, we uncovered obituaries and eventually the newspaper report of the incident. I was completely shaken.
I stayed that way for about 12 hours. Afraid to go to sleep because I might dream or think about it, I stayed up most the night, refreshing my Facebook news feed and hoping someone else was awake and posting a status update.
In the light of day, I avoided the front door and steps where the reports I read said the incident happened.
When my husband left for work we all stood in the grass and waved good-bye as usual, my calling out "if you have a chance, call the realtor today to set up an appointment."
And then, unlike usual, my children planted themselves on the front steps and proceeded to play there, of all places, for over an hour. In ten months of living here, we have never before played there. It was the last place I wanted to be. And clearly, the only place I needed to be.
In that hour, the creepiness went away. And beginning there, I decided this house needs our happy story. It needs our love and caring. It needs everything this family is and all we hope to be.
And I am beginning to see that it all could happen here.
At Halloween, one neighbor brought over special treat bags for our kids.
On a recent toddler-walk we met a new family who didn't run into their garage as soon as they spotted us.
Rebecca & Durham have an over-the-fence friendship developing with the engaging kindergartner next door.
My husband and father-in-law are halfway through with the deck extension that will bridge much of the riverbed in the back yard this winter.
There's a picture hung on almost every bare wall in the living room -- and even a few in the dining room too.
I am embracing the extra time I get to sit in the car while running out for things -- after all, sitting is a precious commodity for moms.
We haven't been playing on the steps any more -- but when my mom came out to visit today we did have a big time on the neighborhood park swings.
And next fall when the kids are old enough for Tuesday night soccer, we might just sign up.
And so we are staying.
It only took ten months, one soccer game, a late night history lesson --- and two toddlers laughing and smiling in the sun on some concrete & brick steps.
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