Houses become homes when families are added, this notion is often romanticized, but I will take it one step further. Your home is your partner, and you will benefit from the constant upkeep every time a severe storm rolls through, or an energy bill finds your mailbox.
Let's take this a little further, my last partner was my loyal assistant. Anytime a small repair was warranted, I could lean out the door and grab a tool from my trusty workbench. I took this act for granted and could literally perform it blindfolded. This is one of the many carefree moments I long for.
This past week I realized that I am mourning the loss of a friend, an 1800 sq. ft. buddy. We had good times together and memories that shall never fade. He was the backbone of this blog, the reason for getting out of bad early to make the most out of a productive day.
My wife and I brought our babies home to this friend, warm and stable in those rough early months. These same children raced around on tricycles and swung beneath the giant spruce trees. I now recognize that my younger self was fine-tuning future fatherhood skills. Nurturing the neglected soul, breathing life into its vital systems and praying that everything would work out well.
The accumulation of man hours has paid back dividends of restful, worry-free sleep and days of neighborhood pride. And most recently coming through for us, when we needed our house to sell quickly in order to prepare for a massive, cross country move. There will be plenty of Manic Maker hacks to come, but they will never match the resurrection of 39 Winchester Street.
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