Going, going, gone

For 33 years I called it home.

Now, it's somebody else's home. A family with two young children is moving in.

Closing on my house was two days ago. Today, I got the check.

I might not own a house any more, but I am now the proud owner of a big chunk of cash. That seems fair to me. In fact, considering what I paid for the house in 1980, what I got seems more than fair to me.

Now, if the furnace in the basement stops working when it's 25 degrees outside, it's somebody else's problem.

And when that LBJ bird builds a nest inside the front-porch light fixture, as she did three years in a row, somebody else can clean it out.

People have been asking me if I miss my old house. I miss the good times, but I don't miss the responsibilities of home ownership. I have a great apartment now, and I'm happy as a bug in a rug.

But I might miss that frustrated little bird.

I wish the new owners of my old house well. The house itself, built in 1928, has a great floor plan, good bones and a big back yard. I can picture a swing set under the 30-foot maple tree.

If they're lucky, the new owners will be as happy there as I was. And, perhaps, three decades from now, when their kids are all grown, they can sell it to another couple who are just starting out.

And they can add more memories to a good, solid home.