In which the author takes a Mulligan

Home is where the heart is. Or, it’s where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in, as Mr. Frost said. (He roughly said that, I’ve not looked it up). For me, it’s been a little bit of both. For the last seven years, home has been a cozy cat-filled bungalow in Minneapolis. It’s where my heart is, because my wife and kitties live there… and my wife and kitties certainly have to take me in when I show up on the doorstep (sometimes I lock myself out).

I hated the thought of selling the house, anyway, but the market really hates the idea — so much, in fact, that we’d basically have to pay people to buy it from us. We briefly considered renting out our house here and renting down there, but decided that was really a solution for a people with stronger stomachs and fewer pets than we do.

The point of all this is that we’re not moving to Iowa. We were looking forward to the big house and the small college town lifestyle, but real estate is apparently destiny. We’re staying in our bungalow in the city, keeping our current jobs, and counting our blessings, of which we have many.

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