21 Days, but Who’s Counting?

Current status: I feel a little like an anchor that has broken loose, dragging the bottom, until it breaks completely free.

Finished my requirements for graduate school, which means I am the proud owner of a shiny new Master’s of Fine Arts in Creative Writing. It still has that “new degree smell.” Over the past weekend, I was able to spend time with a lot of the graduating class and I have to admit, I will miss them (as I do with last year’s class.) As to be expected, some have left town already, some are planning to leave and there are some hanging around Wilmington, I hope keep in touch with a lot of them. (In other words, I may need a couch to crash on. :) ) A little side note: If anyone is thinking about applying to graduate school for Creative Writing, don’t skip over UNCW when deciding where to apply. The MFA program and the community of writers at UNCW are amazing.

The other thing that has been occupying my time is my house, or I guess I should say fixing up my house so the renters can move in by May 1—today. Over the past couple of weeks, I have painted, put down toe molding, and either removed, thrown out or sold everything. Items that, for some reason, I have kept for as long as 25 years include: a wiffle ball bat, notes/letters/postcards from every girlfriend I’ve ever had, my brother’s high school football jersey, various hats, a certificate saying that my old dog and I competed in a Frisbee contest, every cassette tape I ever bought or stole, a splash cymbal, notebooks and notebooks of class notes from my time as an undergraduate, a shark’s tooth, some bad art, a hide away bed from the 70s, Michael Jordan’s autograph, a wall hanging from my parent’s early ‘60s living room set, novelty mustaches and a lot more.

During the time living there (since 1992), I never considered the house my home. It always seems a bit cold or off in some way, but yesterday after I gave the tenants the keys, they left, and I finished a few things, I had a hard time leaving. Closing the door was difficult and I hate to admit it, I had a pang of nostalgia. Who knew? Not to sound too cheesy and it is a bit cliché, but I guess home isn’t the building it’s more than that. Every person that has stepped foot in it had something to do with making it a home. There is no way I can tell every story here, but in time I hope to include at least some. I will miss living there, but it feels good to purge myself of all the clutter. I have a feeling that I just might miss the novelty mustaches the most.