I love being home.

I come from middle-class suburbia, from one of those neighborhoods where you can walk down the street and see that every home has a white picket fence, the dad smokes a pipe while raking the autumn leaves and the average 1.5 kids in each household either fly a kite or do soapbox racing.

My parents moved to our current home when I was a toddler. The house we had lived in before can only be described as a dump. I’ve seen some pictures in various photo albums. The exterior was painted in that typical ungodly `70s brown that everyone thought looked marvelous. The interior was completely coated with orange shag carpeting. This house was a lemon.

In the 17 years since we moved, that house hasn’t changed a bit. It’s still tacky and it’s definitely an eyesore. Every time I drive past it I thank the man above that my parents had the sense to move.

I love our house. It’s the only tri-level home on our side of the street, a giant standing among the smaller homes. My parents aren’t wealthy, but they know the value of an investment like a home. I think my mom treats the house better than me sometimes.

My mother has turned into a real fanatic with planting various flowers and shrubbery in the yard. Maybe it’s to compensate for only having one son at home instead of two, but she’s really gone nuts–I came home in May to find the porch completely overrun by flowers. The concrete deck in front of the house had been transformed into a suburban jungle.

My dad couldn’t care less about the aesthetic aura of the house, but that’s probably because he’s working long days and doesn’t have the time to appreciate the home he lives in.

When I was younger, I used to have the room over the garage, a spacious and wonderful room that was an exciting source for childhood stories and a never-ending supply of monsters. My younger brother Mike had a smaller room that hasn’t had a wallpaper change in seven or eight years.

Now I’m in the guest room. My room has been converted to a recreation room of sorts, the closet ripped out in favor of a desk. Times change.

There’s something magical about the house you grow up in. It’s almost like a part of you. You go to sleep there. You have sleep-overs in your room or in your back yard. A home is more than just a place to lay your head; it’s a physical reminder that you were there. Remember putting your name in the fresh concrete?

My mom doesn’t understand the emotional attachment I have with my house, but my mom moved over a dozen times before she turned 18.

My parents say they’re putting the house up for sale the second Mike goes away to school.

Does anyone have $300,000 they could lend me?