19 is number one

We were standing at the front door of our This could be it! future home. The owner was expecting us. Around two in the afternoon. We were about five minutes early.

“So the deal is, if we like the house, we’ll squeeze each others hand. Agreed?” I reaffirmed with Rudy.
“Agreed,” he confirmed.

Knock. Knock. Went Rudy’s hand. Strong on one of the front double doors. Half circles on the top of each. Wooden slats separating four panes of glass, shaped like slices of pizza.

Whoosh! We could hear the pull of air as a tall gentleman opened the door. Wide. Greeting us. With a bright, shiny smile. He stepped aside. Gestured with his hand to come on in!

In we went. Smiles on our faces, too.

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We had only taken two or three, maybe four or five, steps into the entryway when, at the exact same time, Rudy and I squeezed each others hand. Tightly. Making sure we were remembering our agreed upon agreement.

Then we looked at each other. And smiled.

We knew. Right then. Only a few feet in, that this was the house we wanted. The house that would belong to us. For a long, long, long, long time.

Today marks 19 years living here. That feeling, the squeezing of hands, never wavering.

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