My recent absence these past two weeks from Crassland, was not by choice…You see, I had to say good bye to an old friend. I’ve spent the last fortnight packing up and cleaning my way out of the place I lovingly transformed into and called home for the past ten years.
As I cleaned every nook and cranny for the excited new and imminent owners, I spent some time reflecting on the untold hours of sweat-equity I spent making this once antiseptic retirees’ domicile into an inviting destination for the spontaneous laughs of numerous dinner guests and party-goers, and memories worth cherishing, for me, for a lifetime.
For example, I vividly remember the “tiki torch” party of five years ago this July 4th. The invitations went out well in advance and it seems it was the “must attend” event for all of our friends. The aforementioned tiki torches were blazing the way for the impending merriment. The shed was even decked out to resemble an island oasis replete with grass hut affectations. My last memory of that evening, was being amongst about forty people drunk enough to make sailors on leave blush, dancing in the back yard to the quintessential Bob Marley CD Legend (which was cranked to about a zillion on the stereo) at approximately 2:30 a.m. Needless to say, the neighbors that did not attend (read: not invited), were less than thrilled with our sloppy antics.
Then there was the Christmas party, back in ’08, attended by seventy five of our closest personal friends. The Christmas tree was trimmed as if Norman Rockwell himself were retained for the event. Every room in that inviting ranch was decked out for the holiday season. Oddly enough, we didn’t seem to mind the red wine stain on the carpet, nor the seven-layer-dip glob on the hallway wall, at the time.
You see, despite the more recent rafter-shaking, soul-crushing shouting matches and snare-drum tight, tension-filled days, there were many good times in the old ranch house.
As I packed the last of the cleaning supplies and the vacuum cleaner into my waiting car, backed out from the garage and lowered the door for the last time, I found myself wiping away a tear. The tear was not for sadness at my current situation, as I was more than ready to move on to the next chapter of my promising mid-life. No, the lone tear was more for the finality of what the old gal had meant in terms of laughter, great food and the diamond-hard promise for a supposed, but ultimately ill-fated, lifetime of safety, security and shelter.
I’m going to miss that old ranch house.
