The following is one of the oddest and most reluctant real estate pitches you will ever read. It should be made clear, I don’t expect any sympathy for my plight, after all I have been spoiled to have had such a great place to grow up in and return to….but honey stop the car, this house is a great deal!

 I never intended to move away from Iowa for “good.”

Back in 2003 I loaded up a trailer of my possessions and headed to California to experience new adventures with my fellow Midwestern refugee friends in the Golden State. I figured I would see the sites, work a bit, and head back to the Midwest when I got “old” ….you know like in my 30’s. I assumed someday I would purchase my parents home, raise a family, get active in my hometown community and maybe even get involved in politics (I was an extreme idealist). What I didn’t plan on was meeting the woman of my dreams in California…. the rest is as they say…history.

Now married to my native San Diegan wife (sounds so exotic) and raising two young boys in Southern California, I take my family back to my childhood acreage on the outskirts of Sioux City several times each year. I feel it is important that my boys experience at least a little bit of the magic and beauty I enjoyed growing up in such a beautiful place. 

People who don’t think “beautiful” when they think of Iowa have never been to Iowa. 

I have a fairly remarkable memory (good thing I had a great childhood). Like a lot of people, my memories tend to be paired with sensory things like music, smells, and visual cues. A pop song from the 80’s, no matter how good or bad, might trigger a memory of a childhood event where I heard that song. Even for things like toys, clothing, etc.  I can often remember the day I received them or the circumstances surrounding their aquisition. Sometimes my vivid recollections of the past frustrate family members who wish some memories would just fade away. The memories that I am most fond of from my life often center around my childhood home. My parents bought the house and surrounding eleven-acre property from the bank right before I entered kindergarten. I remember my mom and dad saying they got a great deal on this brand new house because the developer, who had hoped to build a housing development, had “lost his shirt” and was forced into bankruptcy.  In one of our first visits to our new home I opened a drawer and found an old shirt. I recall clearly how proud I was when I triumphantly declared to my parents that I had found that man’s shirt! That was just the first of many memories that were forged during my time in this house.  As you might imagine, my memory makes it tough to part with things. After all, I am not just parting with just a “thing”, but a memory (special thanks to my wife, she keeps me from hoarding).

Fast forward 35 years and my parents have decided that they no longer need a large two story house with 11 acres of hills and trees to maintain. My mom will finally get her wish, this fall she will get to live on a paved road in town, and both my parents will no longer have to deal with the constant upkeep required for an acreage. I am happy for them and the new experiences they will have, but now I find myself trying to box up a childhood and reconcile the many memories tied up in that home and land.

I have friends who moved so often growing up that no one home ever seemed like “home.” For me, I have spent the past 35 years either living or returning to one address. No matter where my mail was going or where I lived….this was my only real home.  Even now when I walk around the house I remember so vividly events from the past 30 plus years. Birthdays, Christmases, phone calls from friends, parties, bad times, great times, mediocre times, first experiences, and sad experiences, every part of the house has significance. For example, when I walk into the front door and go up our steps I remember coming home in middle school and being greeted with the news my grandfather had passed away. When I walk through the kitchen I remember the time as a 5 year old I tried out a new word I had recently heard in front of the family as they ate dinner (the word was bastard, and I had no idea what it meant…. you can imagine the surprise). In the garage, I can still see clearly the crepe paper hanging from a middle school party I threw in hopes of impressing one of the many young ladies I was interested in (the song “Hungry Eyes” always makes me cringe when I hear it, not just because it’s a crappy song, but  also because of the memories of failure that accompany it.).

The reality is that the house will go up for sale in a few weeks. Even though I have worked tirelessly to persuade my wife that it is in fact a very smart idea to pay a mortgage on a home we actually don’t live in (this argument I feel is extremely valid), I have failed to change her mind, and unless someone from the Siouxland community steps forward and provides me with an awesome job that allows me to broadcast sports, record voiceovers, and teach while earning enough money to fly my wife back to San Diego monthly the future of the house will not include my family.

I have surrendered to the idea that I will have to learn to deal with not having a museum of memories to return to, but I am hopeful that my childhood home can be a magical place for another child out there or for parents who desire a great place to raise a family. So if you know someone who wants a large house and land** with plenty of room for adventure please let me know…..I would be more than happy to show them around my childhood, I mean the house.

It does appear I am now gone for good.....(or at least my childhood is) 

*For my non-Midwestern friends, our property was just an acreage, not a farm with a 1,000+ acres of crops, livestock, tractors, etc.. ….In relative terms to the farm belt, 11 acres is fairly small.

**The plan is to only sell the house and half the property, my parents will retain half of the land.