Yesterday, Marc and I wandered (a baby perched on each of our shoulders) over to visit our neighbors. We discussed our shared obsession with the winter Olympics, let Addie and Ellie pet (and be licked by) their dog, and watched them wrangle a goat off their roof.
Yeah, you read that right. Watched them wrangle a goat off their roof. We've got pictures. Walking home again, we discussed the latest renovation plans, and I realized: we've flung ourselves headlong into this project after only barely considering just moving instead.
It would probably be easier to just move. We know. Moving doens't involve digging a 3x3x5 foot hole in your yard. It doesn't involve finding somewhere else to stay while walls are knocked down or trying to steer two toddlers (who I hope, I hope, I hope will develop at least a rudimentary understanding of the word "no") away from a backyard full of construction equipment that is very much Not For Babies. It doesn't involve hour long debates (eh, let's be honest: three hour long fights) about weather a step down into the new living room breaks up the space in an interesting way or is just plain dated. No, moving involves hanging out the amazing realtor who helped us find this house in the first place (and who is one of our favorite people in PDX), signing a zillion papers, and packing and unpacking all our stuff. A pain in the rear, yes, but a familiar one (before we found this house, I'd moved pretty much annually since 1997).
Plus, I always enjoy re-alphabetizing my books when I move (I know, I'm not a well woman).
Still, we're not leaving this house. Not a chance.
We love our house. On a clear day we can see Mts Hood, St. Helens, Adams and Rainer from our porch and on foggy ones we can hardly see the end of our driveway. We have nearly an acre of land, with a raised bed for vegetables, a fifty year old apple tree that keeps us in pies and cobblers and sauce for months, and space for an eventual swing set for Adeline and Elodie. Our backyard borders on a network of trails that go on for miles.
And we love our neighbors. We actually know our neighbors, which is rare in and of itself: I remember saying to Marc when we first moved in that in our first two week on this street we'd met more neighbors than we did in two years in our old apartment in Jersey City. Last winter, when we were all snowed in for the better part of two weeks, it was one party after the other (like college, we said). We went door to door gathering all the onions and potatoes for an impromptu latke party, we went cross country skiing at three am, and after ten days of near constant camaraderie still liked one another to gather for a potluck Christmas dinner when the roads proved impassable. There are annual July 4th shindigs, Christmas ship viewings and just because barbecues. When we took Ellie and Addie trick or treating for the first time, everyone cooed over them, everyone could tell them apart without asking, and (best of all) Marc and I wound up scoring four beers, two glasses of wine, and a generous serving of homemade rabbit stew (delicious, and hard to be more local: our neighbors raise rabbits, turkeys, chickens, and--of course--goats).
Add a great school district, proximity to Sauvie Island and it's (nude!) beaches, and the fact that Marc's already dug the hole... no, we're not moving. Besides, the addition will include a wall of built-in bookshelves, so when we come to the end of this adventure, I'll still be able to alphabetize to my heart's content.
Besides, how can you possibly leave a street with neighbors like this one?
