I had a particularly bad commute into work this morning. I’ve been getting used to driving the stick, but heavy traffic is just not fun, and I got stopped on an uphill ramp getting onto the Pike, and started rolling backwards when it was time to move again. By the time I got to the top of the overpass, I could smell the clutch burning, and when I got stopped again on an uphill at the Newton Corner offramp, I nearly had a panic attack. And then I got to the office, looked at my phone, and found out that our buyers wanted to close early, this Friday. Great, the one day I can’t take care of little things, and I need to attend to closing out accounts.

One of the things I needed to take care of was closing the account for the oil and getting a read of the amount of oil we’re leaving behind, so I called Fawcett Energy, our oil company. (Aside — they’ve been great to work with over the years). They told me they don’t send someone out to read the oil tank, and that I needed to stop by the house and read the gauge myself.

Gradually, I settled down, but as the day progressed, I started feeling waves of sadness. This would be my last time in this house.

This house has been in the family since it was built in 1940. My mother grew up there, and after my grandfather was widowed and remarried, my parents moved back there. Up until last September, it was the only home I’d ever had in all my remembered life.

That house has been the scene of numerous family get-togethers, Christmas Eves, cookouts, and birthday parties. I spent hours in the gardens, planting, weeding and digging over the soil, I had my darkroom there, getting me interested in photography. I’ve always taken pride that it’s been in the family that long.

When it came time to make a decision about where to live after Mum died, I vacillated. Part of me wanted to stay there. But it just wasn’t the same without her, and I was rattling around in an empty house. More significantly, the house needs a lot of repairs. My grandfather had added on to the dining room in the fifties, but that was about it. It needs a lot of attention, more than I can give it at my stage of life. So I started looking, but it wasn’t until I started looking at condos that I could see myself living somewhere else. My brother Tom actually found this place for me, and I moved in September.

Up until today, I’ve been surprisingly OK with leaving the house behind. This place is a lot newer and in much better shape. But something about the finality of passing papers hit me today, and as I pulled into the driveway for the last time, I started crying.

There was mail in the mailbox — mostly junk mail, but one piece addressed to the new owners. I got the key out of the lockbox and went in, leaving the mail on the counter. I walked around the house, and went into my old bedroom one last time. I looked at the dining room bay that my grandfather had built, and looked at the warm dining room floor that I’d helped my father sand when I was in 8th grade. And I cried some more.

I went downstairs, got a picture of the oil gauge, and took one more look at the workbench. And then it was time to leave.

After stopping to pick up groceries (and buy myself a treat), I got home, here. I walked into the kitchen, with its (semi) modern appliances and current construction, I reassured myself: I’d made the right decision.

The new owners are a young couple, looking to start a family. Hopefully, they have the time ahead of them to bring the old house up to date, and make it their home. I wish them all the best.