On Moving Day, the Past Comes Along
By Myrna Katz Frommer (New York Times)
We are moving. It was 11 years ago, on Lincoln's Birthday, that we moved into this house. My daughter became 4 that spring and her baby brother 1. It would be four more years, again in the spring, that my younger boy would be born, and it would be eight and a half years from that moving time that my father would die. I was still in my 20's then, and it was the first time I owned and lived in a house.
The bliss of that spring - to own land, trees, shrubs. The camellia bush with its outrageous blossoms in April --- we didn't even know what it was. And then lilac, azalea and the irises of June. Each in its own sweet time bloomed to an inner clock. My husband became a gardener, a planter and grower.
And now we are going on. Compelled, propelled by demands we were unaware of 11 years ago - a need for space, privacy for each family member, the security of a homogenous middle class community that boasts above all good schools, and the luxuries of maturity like a two-car garage that opens automatically, central air-conditioning, three bathrooms, and a dressing room for me.