nessie the homestead

Here's the thing about the word condo.

I hate it.

It conjures up images of dated high rises by a north Florida beach with weird carpets, mismatched spoons, and rowdy spring breaking neighbors. It makes me think of Michael Scott running through the sliding glass door because he thought he heard an ice cream truck, the candle company, and Jan throwing a Dundie at Michael's flat screen (that wasn't even a great episode. Why do I have it memorized?). It makes me think of bachelors and loneliness and cheap appliances.

Not to mention it's one letter short of another word I'd rather not accidentally say when talking about our home to, say, my boss.

So what to do but to christen our 809 square feet of real estate with a new, more suiting name: Nessie. According to Google, Nessie is a nickname for Agnes, meaning lamb. Isn't that sweet? Who doesn't like lambs? But, of course, as Matt so quickly reminded me, Nessie is also a giant Scottish lake monster. Oh so she has a dark side?? I love the name even more.

A little bit about Nessie:

• She is small cozy. Our previous apartment, dubbed Ferdinanda as of now, had one fewer bedroom but 24 more square feet. As my father so astutely stated, we're a little young to be downsizing, but I am an old soul. (Sorry about what Dewey did to your carpets, Ferdinanda...I hope you'll forgive us)
• Her floors and ceilings sag. Her front door had to be specially cut to accommodate the sloping frame. There are cracks along the crown molding. Nothing meets at a 90 degree angle and our side tables wobble. It's okay, old girl. There is so much beauty and wisdom in your age.
• She SHINES. From about 7 am until 7 pm, her 10 windows pour in the most gorgeous sunlight you've ever seen. I love how the light in each room changes throughout the day...going from a soft buttery yellow to crystal bright to a warm gold. Until we got the shower curtain up, you couldn't go in bathroom because the way the light bounced off the white tiles on the wall was blinding. 
• The kitchen is my dreams incarnate, my hopes manifested, my favorite place in the world. Nessie's cabinets are deep, functional, and beautiful. Walking in there, you can feel the care and thought put into the placement and design of each one. Wild props to the previous owner. You done good.
• She bestows a sense of home and security on anyone who walks through her (crooked) door. It is not unlike being small and wrapped up in a hug by your granddad. I'm not kidding. Come over and you'll feel it.
• She is such a blessing. We can't believe we (/the bank) own a home!

This past week, while I've lied awake at night, I think about all the seasons of life that will happen within Nessie's walls.

Currently, as newly weds, where we will learn (sometimes the hard way) about grace and patience and forgiveness and love; where change seems to be a constant and I'm just itching to put down roots and be established already; where everyday is new.

Next, when we have our rhythms set and we've settled into who we are as man and wife and grow closer everyday; when we travel places and have pictures on the walls; where we have matching monogrammed slippers next to our bed (this may be a pipe dream).

And the season after that, where (hopefully, let it BE Lord) our family grows; where our world shifts and the office becomes a nursery; where I get to hear Matt sing quiet little songs to a sleepy baby.

Nessie, we promise to be kind to you. To take care of your cracks, polish your doorknobs, and try not to stomp too hard on your floors. Thank you for your built-ins and windows. For your charm and gas appliances. For being ours.

BEGIN

Pictures are for remembering. They're for grabbing a moment in time and immortalizing it on a shiny piece of paper, in a camera roll on an iphone or in a flickr account. Little pieces of stolen time, frozen forever, never changing. Pictures bring us back to a specific moment, when time and space has removed us from the original circumstances, and allow us, for just a second, to be back on that gray ikea couch with that wiggly kitten. 

But our memory of that moment is so limited to what we can see. When I look back on this picture in ten, five, or even one year, I won't remember how I went to the doctor that morning, then worked from home the rest of the day. I won't remember the lunch I ate with Ellie (La Fonda salad) or the TV show we watched (Virgin Territories, not our best moment). Distance will fade the memory to only what is visible. Me, on a cheap couch, trying to look trendier than I am, feeding my need to mother by holding a kitten like a baby.