Houses have never really meant that much to me.
Maybe it’s because I lived in over fourteen different ones before turning 18.
Maybe it’s because I ended up upside down on my very first house purchase, thanks to the mortgage crash of 2008.
Maybe it’s because all my most treasured memories take place outside my house – on a desolate beach at dawn, breathing in the 14,000 ft view that inspired the authorship of “America the Beautiful”, or snuggled up to my soldier post-deployment in temporary military housing.
Houses – big or small – don’t seem to make much of a difference to the inhabitants regarding the quality of life. I’ve known many a miserable person to live a 7,000 customized square feet, and met many a happy individual to have little more than a tent to call their “home”.