Today, I found myself thinking about the changing seasons, now that Autumn draws near (not that you'd know it from the weather) and how this relates in a sense to my new house.
(That's the first time I've called it that, without any caveats, which is progress.)
Seasons are an obvious way to chart passing time that's illustrative of rebirth and development. They roll on endlessly, outside of our control, leaving us to adapt to them; when it gets warmer, short sleeves are prevalent, and when it's brass monkeys, out come the Winter coats.
Personally, I'm standing on the edge of real change. After twenty-one years in Hitchin (or essentially my adult life), I'm moving to a village outside it, into the closest thing to my family's spiritual home*. My grandparents bought the house in the late-1940s / early-1950s and raised my dad and his brother here, with my dad moving back when my parents separated when I was a kid. And now here I am, making it my home with my wife so many years later. And I can honestly say it couldn't feel more right.
Sorting through my dad's things since he passed away last year is inevitably bittersweet. Ironically, he was always trying to get me to go through my teenage belongings that he'd been storing since my mum moved to Norfolk in 1999 and I moved into my first flat. It became a running joke that I hadn't got around to it. Now, it seems he had the last laugh, as I have to sort his things too. And in turn, I'm finding my grandparents' stuff that he'd held onto when in the same situation.
When I think of the many seasons this house has seen across seventy years, it's a comfort to know my dad's family lived here throughout. My grandfather settled back to normality here post-war after his time in the navy, to raise his children (though I bet my nan did most of the work), and my dad kicked off his education (rather lazily, if the reports I've found are anything to go by) at the school down the road, presumably making his way there each day on little-foot, in short trousers.
Every event - from my parents' wedding in 1968 to me doing puppet shows for my nan in the mid-1980s - crossed paths with this address, and so shall it continue. Because while this house has seen so many eras, the next one belongs to me. I hope my wife and I can add a few good chapters to its story.
*wanker.