Henrietta Hay's Column

This spring I have been watching several of my friends in the process of moving, as in moving from one house to another Since I am sitting peacefully in mine with no intention of ever moving again - famous last words - I have been thinking about houses and their occupants.

To me houses have always tended to be just structures of wood and brick and stone made important by the people living in them. But I have noticed that taste in houses is as varied as taste in clothes. Some like traditional. Some like modern. Some like apartments or condos. Most of us today like modern living space with lots of room and light and all the modern appliances, but not everyone agrees. One irreverent soul commented that, "I want a house that has got over all its troubles. I don't want to spend the rest of my life bringing up a young and inexperienced house."

Some people are quite sentimental about houses. I have read that in Wales you would no more neglect to give a house a name than you would a child. And it keeps the name as long as it lives, the house that is.

In New England there are houses that are 300 years old, and the descendants of the people who built them are still living in them. Said ancestors might not know just what to do with all those new gadgets in the modern bathrooms and kitchens, but they would recognize the outsides of their houses. Who knows, maybe they are still haunting them.

Out here in the west we have some really old houses. The Pueblo Indians built theirs in the cliffs many centuries ago. Otherwise, however, western houses are comparatively young. A real Victorian house out here is truly a historical monument.

But wherever we may have lived and however many houses we may have occupied, I think we always remember every one of them. Other details of our lives we may forget, but not houses. The first one I ever lived in was built by my parents in Rocky Ford around 1909. I can still see it very clearly in my mind, although we moved out of it when I was five and I have not seen it for over fifty years. All the other houses that followed I have stored away in memory, but unlike the Welshwoman, I don't feel particularly sentimental about any of them.

Of course I remember all too well my last move. I pulled up stakes and moved out of the house my family had lived in for 35 years and moved into a condo. The house had a full basement full of stuff. I refuse to call it junk. Throwing out stuff is not only difficult. It is emotionally painful.

Since my move out of that young house of 35 was such a difficult project, I was prepared to feel sorry for these various friends of mine who were moving. But I discovered that the younger generations are less inclined to accumulate junk, and are able to move from house to house with a minimum of pain. The way each family approaches house buying, however, is very distinctive.

One friend approached the search for a new house with the precision of a computer. Together the family agreed on a dozen or so requirements. Then they inspected many houses and each family member voted on each one. It soon became evident that each person was not going to have everything he/she considered essential. At that point the computer broke down and the various compromises with reality began. But eventually they found a house that satisfies everyone.

Another family was far more casual. They made the decision, looked around a bit, found a house they liked, sold their old house quickly and were moved before they quite knew what hit them. They are delighted with their new home.

Another friend buys houses as a hobby. She buys one, decorates it, sells it, moves on to the next challenge and has a great time doing it. But still another chose to stay in her condo unit rather than buy another somewhat more desirable one, simply because she couldn't face moving.

While I sit smugly in my house and watch my friends turn their houses into homes, we all know all too well how very lucky we are to have them. Hundreds of thousands of Americans don't.