Moving on and My Old Houses
The Japanese have a curious custom.
They believe that objects have a soul, and the more personally connected to the owner an object is, the stronger that soul will be.
This belief is loosely tied to the philosophical concept that is called 'animism'.
Well, it stands to reason that houses would have a soul under that line of reasoning.
What could be more personal to you than your dwelling? With that said, you can look back on all of the past places you have resided, as you have moved to different addresses throughout your life, and perhaps you'd have something or other to say to that old place of residence.
If your typical person were to write a letter to their old dwellings, it might go something like this: "To the house I grew up in: Thank you for those childhood memories that I could never replace.
I'll never forget how you made the doors squeak and the blinds rattle at 2AM to scare the cookies out of me making me think there's a monster in my room when I was five.
I loved how your kitchen held up under mom's cooking.
I'm sorry that I broke your window with my cricket bat.
But I'm really disappointed in how you deteriorated after we moved away.
Now your whole neighborhood has gone to seed, and there's people living there that aren't nearly as nice as we were.
To my college dorm: Thank you for being so easy to sneak into after curfew on nights when we came home drunk.
If at least half of your windows hadn't had broken latches, I don't know what we would have done! But I really felt like you were unfair to us in some ways.
When that one guy played a practical joke on us by coating the entire hallway floor with shampoo, we never imagined that we would be days and days mopping it over and over to get all the soapy residue off.
Thank you for supporting rumors that you were haunted, which led to so much fun with the flashlights at night and some visiting girls.
To our first apartment: I hope you've learned your lesson.
You didn't like us from the moment we moved in.
We were just a young couple starting out, and you really resented us for being there.
No sound from the neighbor's racket-excuse for music was too minor to let through the wall to wake us up.
Your water heater leaked, your electric sockets sparked and blew out, you shut down the air conditioner every summer, your cupboard doors were always swinging open and making me bump my head on them when I stood back up after digging something out of a drawer, and I swear you dropped that closet door on me on purpose.
I'm glad we can afford better now.
To our intermediate condo: You were the faithful one.
We raised our kids and went to work and came home and never thought twice about you.
You put up with crayon art and spewed spinach on the walls, let me crash my car into your garage door with hardly a scratch on either one, and held up like a champion through that big flood when the rest of the neighborhood suffered water damage.
When lightning hit you, you dutifully shut down your circuit breakers rather than allow our appliances and computers to get fried, which is more than I can say for some houses.
We miss you.
To our starter house: I hope we were good enough for you.
God knows, you cost enough.
I always thought that living in you was some kind of privilege that you were grudging to bestow on us.
Nobody explained to us how to turn the shower on.
We'd crank on the bathroom tap and search and pull and push and pat and turn everything we could find, until we found the little ring on the bottom side of your faucet.
That face full of ice water you gave me when I yanked down on the ring was all the hint I needed: I was not worthy.
But I tried my best.
I tried to mow your cranky lawn with all of its slopes and dips, but it never came out neat.
I was constantly reminded of how seriously I should take my responsibility as a homeowner, when you drains clogged at the slightest provocation.
I mean, that was just Hollandaise sauce, you know.
It should have gone right down, it was just liquid.
I really didn't think spewing it all over my shoes was called for.
And what was up with the booby-trapped window shutters? The only way to operate them without pinching my fingers was to wear a catcher's mitt.
" Yes, it would go something like that.
Everybody should write a letter to the home they've moved away from.
It's great to get this off of your chest!
They believe that objects have a soul, and the more personally connected to the owner an object is, the stronger that soul will be.
This belief is loosely tied to the philosophical concept that is called 'animism'.
Well, it stands to reason that houses would have a soul under that line of reasoning.
What could be more personal to you than your dwelling? With that said, you can look back on all of the past places you have resided, as you have moved to different addresses throughout your life, and perhaps you'd have something or other to say to that old place of residence.
If your typical person were to write a letter to their old dwellings, it might go something like this: "To the house I grew up in: Thank you for those childhood memories that I could never replace.
I'll never forget how you made the doors squeak and the blinds rattle at 2AM to scare the cookies out of me making me think there's a monster in my room when I was five.
I loved how your kitchen held up under mom's cooking.
I'm sorry that I broke your window with my cricket bat.
But I'm really disappointed in how you deteriorated after we moved away.
Now your whole neighborhood has gone to seed, and there's people living there that aren't nearly as nice as we were.
To my college dorm: Thank you for being so easy to sneak into after curfew on nights when we came home drunk.
If at least half of your windows hadn't had broken latches, I don't know what we would have done! But I really felt like you were unfair to us in some ways.
When that one guy played a practical joke on us by coating the entire hallway floor with shampoo, we never imagined that we would be days and days mopping it over and over to get all the soapy residue off.
Thank you for supporting rumors that you were haunted, which led to so much fun with the flashlights at night and some visiting girls.
To our first apartment: I hope you've learned your lesson.
You didn't like us from the moment we moved in.
We were just a young couple starting out, and you really resented us for being there.
No sound from the neighbor's racket-excuse for music was too minor to let through the wall to wake us up.
Your water heater leaked, your electric sockets sparked and blew out, you shut down the air conditioner every summer, your cupboard doors were always swinging open and making me bump my head on them when I stood back up after digging something out of a drawer, and I swear you dropped that closet door on me on purpose.
I'm glad we can afford better now.
To our intermediate condo: You were the faithful one.
We raised our kids and went to work and came home and never thought twice about you.
You put up with crayon art and spewed spinach on the walls, let me crash my car into your garage door with hardly a scratch on either one, and held up like a champion through that big flood when the rest of the neighborhood suffered water damage.
When lightning hit you, you dutifully shut down your circuit breakers rather than allow our appliances and computers to get fried, which is more than I can say for some houses.
We miss you.
To our starter house: I hope we were good enough for you.
God knows, you cost enough.
I always thought that living in you was some kind of privilege that you were grudging to bestow on us.
Nobody explained to us how to turn the shower on.
We'd crank on the bathroom tap and search and pull and push and pat and turn everything we could find, until we found the little ring on the bottom side of your faucet.
That face full of ice water you gave me when I yanked down on the ring was all the hint I needed: I was not worthy.
But I tried my best.
I tried to mow your cranky lawn with all of its slopes and dips, but it never came out neat.
I was constantly reminded of how seriously I should take my responsibility as a homeowner, when you drains clogged at the slightest provocation.
I mean, that was just Hollandaise sauce, you know.
It should have gone right down, it was just liquid.
I really didn't think spewing it all over my shoes was called for.
And what was up with the booby-trapped window shutters? The only way to operate them without pinching my fingers was to wear a catcher's mitt.
" Yes, it would go something like that.
Everybody should write a letter to the home they've moved away from.
It's great to get this off of your chest!
