The Widower’s Rant: Box it Up

In January, I mentioned that I made the hard not hard decision to sell our Geyserville house. I convinced myself it wasn’t going to be emotional. Friends told me it must be. I dismissed that. It’s a business transaction. The home is an asset. It’s the right thing to do.

Of course, selling a house is more than signing some papers. I needed to make a quick road trip to take care of a few things before the home could be listed. My car was in the shop, so I borrowed our son's 4Runner. It’s a delightfully analog truck. A key, gauges, and the whine of the supercharger he installed. I go back in time in his truck. It’s a time machine. Back to Geyserville.

Leaving the lakehouse at O’Dark Thirty, a full moon lights up the Tahoe basin. I drive forward into the receding darkness. The sun begins to fill the eastern Sierra behind me, rising over my beloved lake. It’s going to be a beautiful day in the mountains. Just not for me today.

My mind starts running through the checklist. Things to be moved. Things to be sold. Things to be donated. Things to be disposed. So many things. What to do about the little seat on the porch, the one a friend gave us? The one I took apart, sanded, and repainted with care. So many projects around the house that I poured my heart and time into. Because I built a home for us. And now it’s all reduced to items on a checklist. How do you disassemble a household full of a life?

And then, without warning, the tears start flowing down my cheeks. Oh shit. It’s happening again. I cry all the way through the Tahoe basin, over Donner Pass. I haven’t had a good cry like this in weeks. Who decided to call it a “good cry” anyway? It doesn’t feel good at all. It hurts.

Later in the drive, back in the flatlands, Davis is on the horizon. I haven’t driven past Davis in so long. Davis, where it all started. Then, Noel Gallagher‘s version of “Gonna Live Forever“ streams. Overwhelmed by more emotion. That the song came up isn’t a surprise. I’m playing the concert setlist from an interesting triple header. Metric/Noel Gallagher/Garbage. We saw them in the Santa Barbara Bowl. Such fun. I'm lucky to have such wonderful memories.

It’s been almost seven months since I walked into the Geyserville house. Like the previous 18 months, I unpack my bag in my empty closet, a guest in my own home. I hate this part.

Like the last time, and the times before that, I stumble around the house, unsure what to make of the familiar, now unfamiliar place. Then the task-master behind my forehead snaps me to attention, and I start whittling down the checklist. Being overly task-saturated has some benefits.

Our lovely neighbors across the street stop by to wish me well as I sell our home. They’re the kind of neighbors you'd be lucky to have. I feel like I’m betraying them, all my neighbors. Ours was the house with the pizza parties, Scrabble nights, the tractor parade viewing grounds. Soon, it won’t be our house anymore.

The stager asked me to take down all the art on the walls. Down they come. The Japanese prints from my parents’ house that we chose spot by spot. The street scene in Paris that Lauren picked out on our first family trip to France. The kids’ chalk drawings from art class on our bedroom wall. The cheap Japanese crane print I had in college, that hung on the wall of our first apartment, our first home, and now our last home. All of them moved into the garage, some to come to the lakehouse, most to be given away.

I go through the kitchen. Plates, glasses, flatware. Well used. These can go back out into the world. But my cookware, the deluxe cheese grater, even the curated lemon squeezer? I now have two of everything. We set up the lakehouse when it was supposed to be a part-time vacation home. I don’t need two of everything. I don’t want two of everything. What to do? I don’t know.

I’m asked to disassemble my office so it can be turned back into a bedroom. The office where I ran a winery. The office where I ran a small global company, on calls at all hours. The office where, at the end of each day, I’d come downstairs to the kitchen to start prep. We’d talk about our day, share a glass of wine, and look across the vineyards at Geyser Peak.

At once, I have to leave. It’s too much. Boxing. Labeling. Moving. I invent an errand and drive away. Fortunately, Costco is thirty minutes away. Time to breathe. On the way back, my brain goes on autopilot. Turn signal. Decelerate. Take the exit into Geyserville.

The mural is new. Otherwise, everything looks the same. The familiar movie starts playing in my head. The movie I’ve streamed hundreds of times in the nine years we owned this house. Driving into this bucolic town. Pausing at the single stop sign. Turning into the driveway by the white picket fence. I’m thrown back into the life that was, confronted with the life that was never supposed to end. And I’m shutting it all down. For good.

Fast forward a few weeks, and the house is listed. The stager moved our furniture around and added new pieces, so it no longer looks exactly like our house. That seems to have lessened the sting. The house looks great in the photos. It will be a good home for another family.

My life has moved forward. Everyone’s life has moved forward except Beth. Hers was frozen on April 5, 2024. Twenty-two months and three weeks ago (still counting). She is timeless. She will never grow older. Sitting happily in her backyard, next to her doggies in the sunshine. Living the perfect life. Forever.

And that’s what I’ll do. Move forward. Live a kick-ass life the best I can. Take a big fucking swing at it. That’s the foundation we built. Now I’ll build a new house on it.

I miss you Beth. I love you forever.

Donald