I Lost My Virginity on 11-4-05

...my moving virginity, that is. Most women complain that their first times are rather painful due to rushing and inexperience. Everything I did that day was rushed and ensconced in the embrace of inexperience. And yet, the moving was not painful. Of course, those women might have been talking about sex. Who knows.

This is the fascinating part of having no close friends in close proximity - no one knows where it is I lived for the better part of my life, except for Elisabeth of course. (I have had the rather happy opportunity to show the girl my home and the town I grew up in before I had to so quickly leave it. I never actually thought I would get the chance. So, bully on me.) Most of my friends live in excess of 40 miles away from me (really 100+ if we count Marshall living permanently in Chapel Hill). So it is a strange and perhaps complicated thing to impart the utter wonder and disbelief that can well up at the thought of moving. Of course, now that I have moved, the disbelief is as minimal as can be, I think. Yet it still remains - the house was as much a part of my childhood as my parents, pets, and childhood friends were. So to leave it, the walls of my youth and rather misstepping manhood, is rather like leaving that cherished loved one. It truly is time to go, not because the relationship has soured. But because the time is right and ripe to be taken. Yet timing does not take away the sting of leaving my childhood.

I believe I can say without mispeaking, my house is a manifestation of my life (or, at least, parts of it) because of how it lived with me. As I child, my house defined who I was. I - the very energetic, eccentric child - was not only the redhead but also the kid whose house was a towering pink/white/grey Victorian, 3 story with an acre of lawn, and a lovely white picket fence. Kids in school identified the house with me and me with the house. So much so that, in highschool, friends of mine would honk their car horns as they passed the house or even shout my name. I was never the most social creature outside of school (see protective parents), so the shouting and the honking was a very demonstrative way of keeping in touch. I also remember as a very young one that my similarly young peers used to rib me for living in a house that was actually paint, in part, pink. I never really understood why kids made fun of it, though I can imagine why now.

My house, or rather my perception of it, grew as I grew. When I was young, it was often scary and too very big. My mom, as the time struck for me to jump into bed, had to turn on the hall lamp which lit the stairs and a part of the upstairs so I wouldn't have to trundle to my room in the dark. Lots of very high ceilings inspire lots of very deep shadows which can inspire, even now, my imagination to think more upon the supernatural than usual. So you can just imagine how my mind raced as a wee thing. I remember, encouraged by various creaks and bumps in the night, that I would convince myself a monster was not only in my room but laying on the right side of the bed (had I chosen the left to curl up in) next to me. Of course I promptly fell asleep, but those were a terrifying few moments before sleep actually carried me away.

My house was just....big. And as I grew up, its largeness became comfortable, comfort which manfisted itself into a relaxed, "large" understanding of life. I realize now that I like space. But not wasted space, as, sadly, the space in my house was at times. I enjoy depth, heighth and width in tandem with the delicacies of decoration. There is something undoubtedly expansive and impressive to my mind when one can take a 30 foot by 15 foot room (my dinning room) and make it smaller and more intimate, all the while not hiding the fact of a huge ass room. I love my house - not for any silly sense of perfect design, though. No, I love my house because of it's character. There's a feeling of family, warmth, comfort, excitement, intelligence (dude, we had three book rooms, two with floor to ceiling shelves), and above all, again, family. Perhaps every house with the right people feels like that. I simply have no idea if that's true. All I know is that my old house was wonderful because it was another part to our family - as mushy as that sounds. I look forward to experiencing the creation of the kind of house I grew up in - with children, a wife, family, and friends. If any house can ever feel like the house I just moved out of, I will be so happy.

I also liked the way my house smelled. There are very few houses that my nose appreciates, and by golly, mine was certainly the standard by which all others were sniffed.

A thought just occurred to me, I am leaving behind the bodies of 5 pets. How odd to not have thought of that before. Conrad (my beautiful, like-minded English Spaniel) we buried where a pecan tree grew - torn down by Hurricane Hugo. Willie (some sort of sheep dog of my parents), Albert (a black tabby of my mother), Harry (my cat whose death inspired the only two sermons I've heard my father give), and Hal (my "would sleep upside down in your hands if only you kept still long enough" cat) were all buried along the fence, just a few paces down from our garden. As they left us in this life (and inspired many frank and whimsical conversations about the presence of pets in Heaven), so we shall now leave what were their bodies. I do not feel like I am abandoning them, nor desecrating their resting places. However, over time, the earth where they are buried will be overturned and their bones discovered. Who shall find them? ...in the digging will there be any pause? Will their discovery launch some frenetic police and FBI hunt in the hopes of catching the murderer of the unidentified 5 youths? *sighs*...I hope for the latter.

My yard was also where I spent a decade of my life dedicating myself to the art of pitching. It always amazed me how quickly the earth healed itself of the the many deep, wide scars my taloned feet etched into it. (My cleats were the most impressive things ever.) Thousands of balls rolled in the grass, marking both inaccuracy and accuracy. And now no more shall. Now the land will have even more time to heal itself after witnessing what I hoped would be a brief respite after college became too much to juggle with intensive physical training. How strange it is to consider such an end.

And how strange, I am sure, to read intimate words concerning many things that many will have no context for. I hope I gave something to make a picture.

I miss my house. But I'm having fun with the new one. It smells a bit too much like something not ours, but we'll work on it. Unfortunately we have only one cat to assault disparaging smells. Goodness, that reminds me: I was convinced our two remaining cats would die before we moved. One did, my beautiful little Blackie. And yet, to my surprise, Chipsie still lives! (Can you guess that an 8 year old me named both of them?) I am glad she did, a blessing it always is to keep as much family around you. Especially during these times.