I was 22 years old and hadn't even graduated from college when I made my first mortgage payment.
It was March 1992 and Terry and I had just got the keys to our first house. We were going to be married that June, so I lived there by myself for a few months while finishing up my undergraduate degree at John Carroll and working my first full-time job at The News-Herald.
It was a hectic, heady period, and I still consider it to be one of the most exciting times I've experienced. For several weeks there, it was just life milestone after life milestone.
All of it was great, but nothing quite beats that first time we walked into the house when it had become ours. Houses belong to grown-ups, and suddenly this particular one belonged to us. We were little more than kids, yet we were responsible for everything that happened in and around 1913 East 300th Street.
That was admittedly a little scary, but the thrill of it far outweighed any dread.
Nearly 30 years later, we still have a mortgage. And we've moved on to another house where we've lived for 18 years. And of course we managed to fill up both houses with children, laughter, and memories.
And I'm still cutting the grass. Until I break down and hire someone to do it, I hope to be cutting the grass for years to come.
It's a life that began three decades ago in that beige house with the enclosed front porch and the (seemingly to us) big backyard.
What a ride it has been. What a ride it will be.
I wouldn't trade it for anything.
No comments:
Post a Comment