Another English Teacher Uses This IN CLASS...

...which I believe makes me a real author. Well, real-ish. This originally appeared in Volume One, back before there was much direction on what the opening letter should look like. And, we moved out of this house seven years after this letter, because we needed more space. Psychic.


July, 2005
To my lovely new house, on our one month anniversary:

            One month ago, my wife and I hopped aboard the bloating real estate bubble and purchased you, our own little chunk of wood, linoleum, and various piping.  We perused about twelve properties in our search for “the one,” our soul-home, the place where we plan to grow old together, at least for five to seven years, at which point whatever future children we may have will need more space.  Despite this early playing of the field, we knew all along you would be the one for us, with your pedestal sink and enormous upstairs master bedroom.  I know it must have been hard, house, watching us fondling the cabinets and caressing the window sills of all those other places, but it doesn’t matter any more, baby.  We are calling you home.

            I have to say, I’ve never been with a dwelling that has had so much storage space.  I love that you’re still surprising us with drawers, cabinets, shelves, cubbies, and corners, just waiting to hold the stuff we are too lazy to unpack.  Just the other day, I was staring at the space behind your furnace, and I thought, “That would be an awesome place to put our coolers!”  And it was awesome.  I still adore your wood floors and your brand new appliances, the deep colors of your walls and your gorgeous mature trees.

            But let’s be honest, housey, it hasn’t all been giant living room windows and a well-maintained furnace.  Our box spring wouldn’t fit up the stairwell to that impressively large master bedroom.  We changed for you, house, we went right out and bought a split queen-size box spring.  And don’t forget about the time your concrete sink in the basement clogged with lint from the washing machine and overflowed, soaking the entire basement.  I’m not saying it’s your fault, but still…  And I hate to bring it up again, but when the tiles above the tub in the bathroom started falling off, I was hurt.  I understand you’re almost fifty-five years old, but seriously, house-muffin, how long can we keep using that excuse?

            I’m not being fair, house.  I’m not perfect either.  I mangled some of the hostas near your sidewalk with the lawn mower, and when I fertilized for the first time, I left green stripes through your front yard.  But let’s not focus on the negative.  Let’s focus on growing together.  You let me frost your bathroom windows so people on the sidewalk can’t see me shower, and I’ll replace your broken garage-door-opener remotes.  You keep your twenty-year-old air conditioner running, and I’ll build a stone patio on the north side of your garage with those little path lights you like and everything.  You remember how we had that outlet installed in your bathroom?  That’s what I’m willing to do for you, homey-kins.  That outlet is a token of our unconditional house-love.

            So, I know it’s only been a month, but I think we’ll work out great.  I know there are some obstacles ahead, like shoveling snow off of your entire corner lot and learning to use a weed-whacker.  But any day now, the people that drive by will stop staring at the “new neighbors” and my wife and I will finally decide what color to paint the bedroom/office.  Housey-poo, you’re my little castle forever, at least until we need more space.

Shelter and running water always,

Eric