Dear Reader

In my home in Iowa, there is a loose floorboard in the living room.  Years ago, I put a few things in there as a sort of time capsule.  I put it there for someone to find later but secretly hoped it would only ever be me or my family that might find what I left there.  Tonight, I wrote my goodbye to whoever next pulls up that floor board.  I would like to post it here more for my benefit than anything else.

Dear Reader,

This house probably doesn't look like much now.  You probably can't see on the surface what I see in memories.  This house built me and helps to define me.  My parents bought the house in 1993, sight unseen,  My grandpa picked it out for us.  It had gold and bright blue shag carpet in nearly every room and up most of the walls.  There were saloon doors in most of the door frames and a wagon wheel for a chandelier in the kitchen. It was a bit of a fixer-upper.

I am writing this on the eve before I give the house back to the bank and can no longer hope for this as my inheritance.  It is much more a fixer-upper now as life seems to have gotten the better of us.

We moved here from San Diego, California in search of a simpler life.  We drove a large Penske truck into town to signs all over welcoming us to Perry.  We learned that life does not come in simple.

I had a wonderful childhood.  I was the only child of two very loving parents who loved each other.  My dad sold real estate here in Perry, I went to St. Patrick's School, and things were good.  My dad missed San Diego, though, and after a few years, sought to move back.  He went out for a job while my mom and I stayed in Iowa.  It seems that sometime on this trip, my dad lost a bit of what made him happy.  It lead to him turning to alcoholism.  My once pristine childhood became peppered with hushed arguments and pockets square with Jose Quervo bottles.

My mom did her best to be just that - my mom.  She worked at St. Patrick Church as the Business Administrator for almost 18 years.  She came to my gymnastic meets, coached my softball teams, and worked at my swim meets.  She became a mom to many of my friends.

While my dad was known for being the funny guy, Tom's Tacos, and eggs benedict, my mom was known for spending hours in the kitchen with me and my friends figuring out whatever problems plagued us at that age.

This house brought me joy - playing with the pump in the side yard, climbing any number of the 20 or so trees in the yard, playing ball on the east side of the house, exploring the basement, "camping" on the front porch, trying to sneak into the closet crawl space, creating dance routines in the back room, and sneaking into my parents' bedroom when I had a nightmare.

This house witnessed my sorrow - after adopting a friend into the family, the boy disrespected my already teetering father, took advantage of my overly "fix it" mother, and was nothing but hateful to me.  This house witnessed the wedge this formed between me and my mother, me and my father, and between my parents.  The tensions heightened and we all ran away in our own ways.  I went to school, my dad went to California to try to get sober, and my mom dove deeper into trying to fix someone who refused to do so much as show gratitude.

My dad passed away from his alcoholism in 2008.  I drew his headstone which is in Violet Hill Cemetery.  My mom was diagnosed with brain cancer in 2012.  My mom struggled with losing my dad before this but now it has truly taken its toll.  Despite her independence, the love of her life is not here to support her in her time of greatest need, as she was unable to do for him.

I moved out to San Diego to go to law school in 2011 and am now moving my mom back out to take care of her.  I have had to sell family furniture that reminds me of better times.  I am having to turn over this home that housed my first, second, and third dog.  This home that kept me warm in the winter and as cool as my mom would allow in the summer.  It saw many happy Easter and Christmas mornings, Thanksgiving dinners that my dad and I prepared together from my grandpa's recipes, and birthday parties fit for a princess.

I've learned that the hardest thing to lose is hope.  So please, don't lose hope in this home.  It is precious, it is elderly, it needs care.  When you negotiated for the best deal you could for this house because you know it needs rewiring, please know that it didn't get rewired because my dad's very close friend was an electrician who died before he could do our house.  When you said you would need to replace the cement out back, please remember that it cracked the year the storms came so early we couldn't fix our iced over gutters.  When you wonder why we didn't do these things ourselves, please remember that my father lost his job and couldn't afford it anymore.  When you replace cracked doors, please hold in your heart that that was not my family, that was an angry boy who refused to do good.  When you sand the hardwood floors and reseal them, please know this is how we started in this house. You can end differently.  I have begun to say goodbye to the hope I had for a miracle for my family in this home but now, I will have hope that your family will return it to its glory and love it, and love each other, and find that simpler life.

Love, Katie
Tom, Robin, Barkley (dog), Coco (cat), Silver (cat), Ashley (cat), Bandit (cat), Zazu (cat), Joey (dog), Cooper (dog), Shanka (cat), Sunny (outdoor cat), Rosie (wild rabbit we nursed to health), Sally (wild rabbit, the same as Rosie), Woody (wild woodpecker we nursed to health), and my many friends who "grew up" here, too.