One of my occasional forays into my own story.

It hit me yesterday that I have less than three weeks before I move from the only house we’ve ever owned and the only timezone in which I’ve ever lived. Our Florida-born and based daughter is here saying her goodbyes before we move.

I am struck most of all by how little sentimental attachment I feel to this house and the vast majority of our possessions, so many of which we’ve purged. We’ve lived in this house for the better part of 18 years. Not only is it the only house we’ve ever owned, but this is the longest either of us has ever lived in any one house, or indeed, in any one town.

When we moved in, the house was steeped in 70s decor. Lots of linoleum, wood paneling, and parquet floors. We remodeled every room, making them our own with bright, bold colors. We built a detached addition. We had our pool dug out after the 2004 hurricanes destroyed our screen enclosure, and we couldn’t get anyone to fix it. In short, the house became a palette for our own story as a young family and now as empty-nesters.

As a child, I felt so sentimental about moving from the farmhouse where I had spent seven formative years that I slipped a note to the new owners behind a radiator in my room. We sold our current house just a week after listing it with realtors — to someone who had admired it at our yard sale. (We’ll learn after tomorrow’s appraisal whether the sale will definitely go through.) As I prepare to leave this house, I feel no such sentimentality despite all we’ve put into this house. I only hope the house will bring pleasure to the new owners.

I am also looking very much forward to the next chapter of my story — a new life in a very different place, Kettle Falls, WA — and I look forward to taking all of you along with me.