It's all official now.
Mike and Kate are moving to the mountains. All of the financing and paperwork and rain dances and house ghoul banishments have been completed, and they are now the proud owners of a new home somewhere in the mountains south of Skyline and 9.
As always, I'm very excited for my friends. They're moving into a bigger house, with space for the kids, a built-in greenhouse, decks, three car garage, a playroom, lots of land and tighter-knit community; how could I not be thrilled for them? The house they're in now works well for two people, even two plus another little one, but not so well for two adults and two growing kids. It's the same size house as Kris' and mine: works for us, not so much for them.
The new place is fantastic and, as near as I can tell, perfect for them. The commute may be long, but that's more my suspicion than an opinion from either of them.
As happy as I am for them, I know I'm going to be sad when they move. Sad as I was when Ben and Lisa moved, though in a different way.
I like when Liza visits me unexpectedly. It's a nice warm feeling having this little person come over to talk, or to play, or to give me a drawing she made for me. I had hoped to make cookies with Liza as my Mom and I used to do with Andrea and Stephanie Gudis at Christmas time (though, Christmas in Arizona was never much different than any other December desert day).
I like when Mike just walks right into the house when he visits. It reminds me of walking over to the Klein's house when I was younger and just walking into the house. It's a feeling of comfort with certain friends that they know if the door is unlocked, they are welcome to walk right in, no knocking needed. Friends other than Mike seem to need my help opening the door, or express permission to walk in.
I'm going to miss them, in a selfish way of close friends becoming less conveniently close. Of losing the convenience of being able to borrow the shovel or sawz-all by walking four doors down the street, or catching a ride into work in the morning, or walking the dogs at night. It's losing the neighbors like my mom always seems to have when I was growing up: the ones that become good friends for a lifetime. I know they'll stay friends, but many close friendships stay close because of proximity.
I wonder if the the Bauers felt this way when we moved away when I was seven.