A Winter Home
A Winter House
In the last few years or so, there have been people who have entered our world who have brought something akin to unicorns and dragons with them. In the world of South Side Chicago in which I grew up, there was never a mention of this magical thing being a possible reality. As the boundaries of my life have expanded, the mythical creature I’m speaking of has crept in, so much so that we now have friends and acquaintances who possess them. The magical beast I’m speaking of is a summer house.
Last week I was trying to schedule a business transaction/meeting with a friend, and when I suggested a possible time for our phone call, she informed me her reception would be spotty at best, because she’s at her summer house by the lake. After figuring out another way to communicate with each other, I was once more alone with my thoughts. I wondered (not for the first time) about the possibility of one day owning a summertime dwelling of my own. I started researching destinations and prices, just to have an idea about these things. After a while, I leaned back in surprise because, well, I think we could afford one.
We were in Paris in 2019 and met a wonderful couple who invited us to visit them in Cape Cod. They explained to us they had a primary dwelling and a cottage which they rented out to visitors. I thought that was a pretty cool thing and I kept their business card and e-mail. Pat and Geno, I hope all is well in your world. The conversation with them is a file in my mind with regards to summer houses.
I looked at homes in Michigan, Wisconsin, North Carolina, Maine, New Hampshire, Minnesota, Washington, and Oregon. It was rewarding to discover that we’ve gotten to a place in our life where we could do something which had once seemed unattainable. I started a notebook where I listed prices, places, other things of interest in the area, and the best time of year to go. I imagined us spending weekends, idyllic fortnights, or maybe even a whole season wearing flip-flops, watching sunsets, porch swings, and nights illuminated by fireflies. My research fortified my daydreams and after exhaling, I started the discussion with my wife, Traci a.k.a. “Whats-her-name.”
I buttered her up with dinner and drinks, smoothing the way for the life-changing conversation we would have. Once she was smiling and sated, I began my pitch. I talked of the places we’ve been, the destinations on our lists, and how good it feels to get away from our semi-urban existence. I then started playing my aces by displaying the prices of summertime abodes, taxes, our upcoming departures from our jobs, and the possibilities which abounded from the could-be reality of a home by the ocean in Maine, or close to lighthouses in Cape Fear, or watching the sunset near Puget Sound. I was smiling when I finished, but she was not.
“Baby, we live in Chicagoland,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s the most magical place to be in the summertime, which is why we plan our major vacations for Spring, Winter, and Fall. I like the idea of a getaway home, but we don’t need one.”
I was dejected, acknowledging the truths of her statement. Baseball games, festivals, concerts, Venetian Night, Chosen Few, backyard barbecues, family reunions, etc. I slunk back to my office clutching my research in my hand. I sat at my desk staring at one of the calendars on my wall. When I focused, I realized it was a calendar by Mrs. Shirley McDaniel and her drawings of “Big Foot,” another mythical creature. The art is beautiful, and because the yeti flourishes in winter, I flipped my thoughts and research. Yes, Chicago is wonderful in the summertime, but it is a totally different reality when December comes. I started looking for homes in different climates.
The next time I started the conversation with Whats-her-name, I was ready. I talked about the harshness of polar vortexes, road conditions, shoveling snow, and forced hibernation. I followed that up with prices of homes in warmer climes such as the Carolinas, Louisiana, or Aruba. When I finished triumphantly, she just smiled and touched my hand.
“You’re not really thinking about a winter home or a summer dwelling,” she said. “You’re ready to embark on the next chapter of our lives, and the warmth of other places is beckoning to your spirit. Retirement, fulfillment of dreams, and the idea of leaving are motivating you. I like the notion of porch swings, sunsets, and fireflies. But it won’t be a winter home. It’ll be the foundation for whatever comes next. I am with you.”
My daydreams of tracking down the so-called mythical creature, a summer home, have
led to a new kind of research involving taxes, square footage, proximity to international airports, January temperatures, and deadlines. Our proposed timeline is 2024, when we will sally forth to our next home in a warmer climate. Right now, Louisiana is in the lead, with North Carolina and Aruba right behind it. I wonder if once we’ve moved and settled in, will we start thinking about a seasonal dwelling somewhere else? I guess we’ll see.
