When fear overtakes me, whether in the darkest night or suddenly in a ray of sunshine, when fear enters our safe corner of the Swedish welfare state, it brings images of a white house in Port Jervis, New York.
Our house. The house where our daughter spent her first year. The house with the giant red couch and the new porch with the view of the swaying tall trees. The house with the original woodwork and the attic that could be an art studio and the old barber shop in the cellar.
The house with the bats and the bugs. The house with one amazing set of neighbors and nothing else for miles. The house far from all our family and friends.
In my nightmares, we do not sell and do not move to Daddyland. We get stuck. And I stop, because I cannot go any further.
Well, now our wonderful Victorian in the cute little river town is back on the market – and has been for more than eight months!
This is your chance to get out of the big city, enjoy the forest, the rivers, the cool breezes (just do not have your first child in town with a doctor you do not like and with no network and only one car and with lead paint on the ceiling of your porch).
I guess it didn’t work out for our buyers … who were good, hardworking people moving up from the Bronx.
I would feel worse for them – talk about bad timing, buying a house in the country two hours from your job just when the housing market blows up and gas prices skyrocket – if they had not ripped out our garden, dug up the Japanese maple we planted when NK was born and put up drywall in every room and then painted everything white.
At least no one has called me, telling me that we still own it, that we have to go back.
Still, however, I won’t be able to sleep tonight … too scared. (this is our picture, not a current one)