Is the couple married? Do they have children? What do they do for a living?
I've never had so many questions about two people I don't know - and probably will never meet - than when my mom texted me that our house sold. I wanted to know everything. Were they worthy to live in the home my parents have owned for 36 years? Do they understand that they are about to move to the greatest street in the history of the world? Will they decide to make my childhood dreams come true and create a tunnel between my sister and I's room underneath the staircase, to create the best hideout ever?
Probably not to that last one, but I stand firm in thinking it's a great idea if they have children, or young nieces and nephews.
It's difficult to comprehend the idea that the only home you've ever known will soon be occupied by strangers. My house is the only thing that currently brings me home to Lansing and I have so much love for the city that made me, and specifically the westside that raised me.
In recent years I've become accustomed to coming home and seeing pieces of furniture slowly removed, it made the transition easier but I wasn't ready for my walls to be painted white; awaiting the next occupant. That's when it hit me. This was no longer my room.
The walls were bare - no more sports heroes valiantly fighting for victory. My CDs were gone. And my favorite stenciled brown bear that held a red balloon was beneath a fresh coat of paint. This place wasn't mine. The room was simply ready for the next.
During my last trip home, I saw a basketball in the Take Up North pile and had to get one last game in.
The net was tattered. The ball was flat. The paint was chipping away from the backboard. All standing as a reminder of the kid who is grown and no longer at home. But in that moment the hoop was still mine.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
It didn't take long for the neighbors to know the youngest of the Hoover-Wyckoff family was home. Apparently after almost 27 years, that was the giveaway that I was home and naturally, outside. I'd say I'm pretty lucky if all it takes is a few bounces for your neighbors to come say hello. That's a level of care that I'm not sure I'll ever know again, but I'm so fortunate to have experienced.
the fam, 2010
To the new owners moving in. I'm not going to pretend to know what you're looking for, but thank you for picking my house. I'm glad you saw something in it that made you decide it was right for you. You likely don't know how lucky you are, but I hope that for however long you stay - be it one year, five years, 20 years, or anything in between - you realize while you're still here, how great this community is.
You live steps away from a high school that is underserved but filled with teachers that only want the best. And the students, well the students are some of the best humans the world could produce. Whether you have a kid there or not, I hope you take a walk over for Friday night football games. (Former resident tip: Even if you don't, you can hear the announcers over the loudspeakers if the windows are open)
Your neighbors are better than most. They frequently gather together and follow a code of conduct called being ridiculously kind human beings. Something I think we'd all like to see more of. They are a collection of individuals whose open spirit will welcome you from the day you arrive to long after you've moved out.
If you're looking for the best place to gaze at the stars, look no further than St. Joe Park. It's a short walk away and growing up, was within my bike ride radius when venturing out alone. As I got older, it's where I went to think. If I ever approached my house with time to spare on my curfew, I'd round the corner and continue to St. Joe. I'd lay on the tennis courts and look up. Pretending I knew what was up there, while knowing that what I saw was a beautiful night sky, in the middle of a hardworking city, that was filled with people who dreamed of what was to come.
Lastly. I'm proud of how we filled this house with love. There aren't many rooms, but each room is big. I'm amazed at the number of people who have texted, emailed or sent a quick note all starting with, "I remember when we came to your house for.." Maybe that means I've told too many people that my childhood home has sold, or maybe it means that my house meant something to them too.
To my parents. Thank you for raising us here on the westside. I couldn't dream of a better place to grow up. I am grateful for the memories we made here while being equally excited for your next chapter of retirement that you so deserve to have.
Home is where the heart is. That's what they say anyway, but for many weeks I had a hard time agreeing, knowing that a piece of my heart will always be here. But now the papers have been signed. The keys have been handed over. The house has been emptied. Reality has set in.
Now, this is someone else's house to turn into a home and that brings me peace.
All love, HW (resident from June 1990 - June 2017)
