Out

This morning, for the first time in many months, the axe that is our former home no longer is poised over my neck. We are, practically if not formally, out.

The actual sale won't take place for three weeks. Having tired of paying even token amounts for utilities and insurance, however, we informed the bank early last month that we were shutting the place down at midnight on Halloween.

In hindsight, that seems fitting.

Mrs. KintlaLake and I scooped up the final bits yesterday afternoon, hauling some to storage and the rest back here. A few pieces of unsold 1980s-vintage bedroom furniture remain in the barn, awaiting an impulsive (if tardy) buyer or a local charity's truck. I'll take the last of the trash to the curb tomorrow evening for Tuesday pickup.

That's it -- well dry, lights out, gas off. At long last, we're done.

Before leaving, I strolled around the property, kicking through overgrown grass and unraked leaves, conjuring memories. I struggle, as my wife does, to remember what we enjoyed in that wonderful place rather than dwelling on what might have been but is no more.

This was the first house that our family called "home." It's where we held our wedding reception and celebrated more than a dozen birthdays, set three Thanksgiving tables and decorated a like number of Christmas trees. We sweated and groaned and hauled and dug and made the place our own, coaxing beauty from the landscape and bounty from the soil.

Warm summer evenings on the front porch and snow angels in the back yard. The tartness of fresh-picked raspberries and the aroma of chili wafting from the kitchen. A doe sampling our apples, a rabbit we called "Crip" and a hummingbird hovering inches from my nose.

Rolling down the driveway for the last time, a swirl of brown pine needles in our wake, we left the place silent, dark and empty. Our hearts, on the other hand, along with our tearing eyes, were full.

We carried with us what we built there -- memories of the best of times and a home that travels with us wherever we go.