 This is the story of a house. A beloved, cherished house. I want to preface this post by saying that I know not everyone gets to grow up in a supportive family environment, let alone in a beautiful home, so I feel nothing but fortunate, lucky, and grateful to have had that. Wildly and ridiculously blessed, really, for no reason other than random luck in where I was born. And that’s what this post is about – an ode to a special place that was the heart of my family’s life for decades. So, with that, I’ve always said: thank you, God — I am forever and wildly grateful.  The year was 2001. I was a shy six year-old, and I remember my dad first showing me the blueprints and renderings for what would become our family home. I studied them like treasure maps and thought to myself, “wow, this is going to be my CASTLE. A magical and special place full of secrets and adventures.” From that moment on, I was convinced it was the most beautiful, perfect house in the entire world. Over the next two years, the house slowly came to life. Every Sunday after church, we’d make the drive from south Fargo to the “Horace lot” to check in on the progress. At seven years old, in a world without iPads, those 18-minutes felt like a journey to the other side of the world.  Week after week, we watched walls go up, windows go in, and rooms take shape. I remember the morning my bedroom carpet was installed — the scent of fresh paint in the air — and the joy of unpacking my stuffed animals in a brand-new space. It was a big change for a kid, but I was excited. I had a feeling we’d be here for a long while. And we were. Over the next 22 years, I learned the location of every light switch. Which windows had the best light. The cracks in certain walls. Exactly how to back out of our funky driveway, even in the dark. I met our neighbors. Memorized the streets of “small-town” Horace. Ran the two-mile loop from the grain elevator back to our house more times than I can count (thanks for the encouragement, Rikk). There were often too many cars in our driveway, making it look like our family was hosting an endless party. (Which… one could argue wasn’t entirely inaccurate.)    As our lives grew and changed, the house remained steady, a constant companion, offering the same comfort and familiarity year after year, quietly collecting the scuffs, marks, and memories that made it ours. In my elementary and middle school years, we had movie marathons and sleepovers in the basement, and “secret club meetings” in my brother’s bedroom ceiling fort (another of my dad’s creative ideas to maximize the space of the house’s attic). The closet under the basement stairs stored our family’s ever-growing costume collection — worn year-round, not just at Halloween. (IYKYK) What started as a roomy space soon became overflowing as the collection continued to expand over the years! During COVID, the long-neglected exercise room suddenly became our main gym and a hub of activity. The long-awaited loft space above the detached garage became my husband and I's home our second year of marriage. My bedroom transformed into a hangout spot once I said bye to sharing a room with Rikka and swapped the extra twin bed for a sofa. In later years, it became a hub for late-night conversations under twinkle lights – a relaxed and peaceful space. The walls changed too, moving from muted white in 2003 to deep, old-world shades of burgundy and bronze throughout the house.      Some rooms stayed constant, though — especially the kitchen. It was the true heart of the home. Southwest-facing, it soaked in the golden light of every afternoon and sunset. This area housed my mom’s desk, our generously stocked pantry (to feed the many hungry bellies that were consistently rolling through), and two kitchen islands — one with a long bar that offered the perfect perch to sit at for completing homework or to casually eat a meal. We cooked and shared too many meals to count in this space, many shared with friends and international students from around the world who brought their own cuisines and dishes to our family table. And because it was the natural space for conversation and communion, many of our family’s best and pivotal moments happened either right here in the kitchen or spilled into the backyard. The backyard was an outdoor paradise pushed right up against the river. Towering oak trees cast long shadows over a vast grassy landscape with a flowing stream weaving through. My mom’s many flower pots added a kaleidoscope of colors across the scene. It was a true slice of heaven for our family — and especially for our many beloved dogs who filled each corner with joyful chaos as they claimed the yard as their own.    And then there was my favorite space, a space that made me feel so spoiled and yet incredibly seen and special: my art center. From the time I was seven, I knew this room was mine. A quiet corner in the basement of the house where I could create endlessly — a shy, nerdy little girl’s dream (and still, even a confident grown 30 year-old woman’s dream).  Of course, the house had its share of flaws and quirks we learned to live with. The grass was always patchy and therefore the dog’s feet were often muddy because my dad refused to cut down the oak trees (rare treasures on the North Dakota prairie). Our front-yard eagle, carved from an old oak tree that had lived out its life (yup, another idea from my dad’s brain, rather than cut the tree down, why not turn it into an eagle?), somehow became a Pokémon Go - Pokéstop. Getting out of the driveway sometimes felt like a strategic operation, coordinating who moved which car, just in case we’d been blocked in by the ever-growing convoy of guests, visitors, and family staying with us. And about 15 years in, the foundation of the house started to fail from being too close to the river — turning our yard into a full-on construction zone for an entire summer to add bracing to prevent it from sinking.  But still. I loved this house. To some, a house is just a building. But for me, saying goodbye feels like losing an old friend — one who has quietly stood beside me as I’ve grown up. As a kid, you don’t notice the bills, repairs, or the responsibilities. You just see the magic. I hit the jackpot in my home life and as I sit and reflect on it I still don’t have an answer for why I was given such a good hand. All I know is that I am endlessly grateful to have had it. This house was the gathering place, the backdrop, and the physical embodiment of our family’s heartbeat for 22 years. So here I am, age 30, finally saying my farewell and reflecting on a beautiful chapter in this sacred space. Goodbye, Chestnut Drive. You will always be loved — not only by the Bergstrom family and friends, but by the new generations who will make it their own. With that, cheers to the next chapter! For you, and for us. Thank you. xx Reyna           |
