The Joy of Staying Put: A Homeowner’s Reflections on Rootedness and Family
I’ve been eagerly anticipating celebrating the 100th anniversary of my house since the moment I bought it. Our local public library awards plaques that read “Bexley Century Home” to all residences reaching the milestone, and to say I’m excited to claim mine next year would be a massive understatement. It’s just a small blue marker for the front yard, but it feels like a badge of honor.
Almost 15 years ago, I was captivated by this American Foursquare-style house—tall and boxy with cedar shingles, ample large windows, and an old coal chute on one side. I still adore the French doors, the built-in features, and the creaky original wood floors, all classic hallmarks of the era. It’s evident when you walk around my neighborhood that nearly half of the houses date back to the 1920s and ’30s. Bexley, Ohio, was incorporated as a village in 1908, then became a city in 1932, once it surpassed the required 5,000 residents. Today, approximately 14,000 people reside here, in about 5,000 homes—an increasing number of which proudly display “Bexley Century Home” plaques.
In 2010, I moved into this house with my husband and one-year-old daughter, who had just taken her first steps a few weeks earlier. Now, that toddler is a sophomore in high school, she has a younger brother starting middle school, and their father lives in another state. When my marriage ended, I fought tirelessly to stay in this old house, despite its upkeep and its ghosts. I wanted to keep my children in our neighborhood, in their school district, within walking distance of their friends, and only a short drive from their grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. This house—this community—is the only home they’ve ever known.
I recognize that my ability to make that commitment to my children is a privilege. The freedom to choose where I live and to establish roots is a privilege. For many, staying put isn’t an option. People leave home for a multitude of reasons. They might be unable to afford to stay, due to divorce, the death of a family member, or gentrification. They may relocate to pursue work, better opportunities, or more freedom. Or they leave to escape violence, persecution, or human rights violations.
Starting over isn’t always an empowered choice or an exciting adventure, but a desperate and painful necessity. I know more than one family who has had to move so that their trans children would have access to comprehensive health care. I know families that are encouraging their teenage daughters to consider colleges and universities only in states where they will have access to abortion. Increasingly, here in the United States, laws have made some states particularly unsafe for women and LGBTQ+ people.
Regardless of the circumstances, and whether you are someone who stayed or someone who left, I believe everyone has a complex, ambivalent relationship with home. I chose to remain in place. I live about 20 minutes from my childhood home in a neighboring suburb, where my parents still live. Every Sunday, we all gather there for a family dinner—my parents and sisters, their spouses, and our children; 13 of us, ranging in age from 6 to 76. When I tell people about Sunday dinner, they have one of two reactions. One is “Oh, that’s so special! I wish I had that kind of closeness with my family.” The other is something along the lines of, “Oh, hell no.”
I understand both perspectives.
On one hand, it might feel stifling to remain in the place where you were raised. There’s so much to experience elsewhere—different places, people, cultures, and ways of life. A change can be powerful and transformative, and sometimes what we need is a fresh start. Perhaps it’s easy to stagnate if you stay in one place too long, to become stuck in a rut, while moving makes reinvention easier.
On the other hand, there’s beauty and power in growing where you’re planted and building relationships over decades. I’ve written extensively about this in —what it means to feel embraced by a place and a community, particularly in challenging times. More than a house, a neighborhood, or a state, people are home. I can’t imagine weathering years of and custody litigation, or raising two children on my own, far from my loved ones.
My century home is haunted, not only by the ghosts of my former life, but by all of the families who lived here before me. Other hands have washed dishes—and babies—in this kitchen sink, turned the knob to open the front door and called out their beloveds’ names as they announced their return: “I’m home!” Other parents and children have slept and dreamed in these bedrooms; other arguments have happened here, and other repairs.
It’s a gift to be a custodian of this history, these memories. This house has been ours for only about 10% of its lifetime. We’re just a chapter in its story. Searching public records, I can see who lived in the house before us, and I ponder their lives here.
Last year, I received an email, subject line: house. The woman wrote that she was about 25% through my memoir when she had an uncanny feeling about the house I’d described. After a quick Google search, she realized she was right: It had been her house. She sold it to us.
As my house approaches its 100th birthday, I’m reminded of how fortunate I am to be immersed in history—my own, and the other families who have lived here. But most importantly, I’m fortunate to have had the choice to stay or, if I’d desired a different life for my family, to leave. I don’t take that for granted. I’m planning to throw the house a 1920s-themed birthday party: fairy lights in the backyard; Prohibition-era cocktails; a jazz playlist of “Sweet Georgia Brown,” “Yes Sir! That’s My Baby,” and other popular songs from that year.
At the party, I envision a backyard filled with friends and neighbors—the people who make this neighborhood and dwelling home. There will be drinks, music, and laughter. And before my children and I extinguish the candles on the birthday cake, we’ll all sing together.