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Years ago, my wife and I entertained a couple in our home. Their two children, with ours, ran amok in play. After a third or fourth pass, our guest father boomed, "No more running! This house is too small!"

Silence followed, the old elephant in the room, for indeed, we live in a small house. At 41 feet in length, a husky high school boy could shot-put a 12-pound ball over it - lengthwise.

Our 1955 suburban Lumberton neighborhood of small homes adjoins two others, Bobby's Run and Maple Grove - brand spanking new, curving roads of majestic homes named the Berkshire, the Oxford and so on. Let me say first, I do not begrudge these owners their beautiful homes. I write instead for those who may see only the missing castle from the outside and not the castle within.

Our daughter slept through her childhood with the head of her bed within eyeshot of our living room, which was her idea. Our son required only eavesdropping. Myself, I need go no farther for a plumber's snake to undo a nasty plug than I do for a sandwich, or to reference great literature.

When quarreling, of course, we're boxers, my wife and I, ringed in all sides. Thin walls away, Mary and I listened to whispering, giggling and the goofy logic of kids and their friends. In turn, we've had to hush the wrapping of Christmas presents, the work of the tooth fairy, and occasional marital discord. Our home's so small that I once reroofed it with my father. I could paint it in days.

Meanwhile, ABC's "Extreme Home Makeover" weekly reflects our national big-house dream, with mansions passed off as the only homes that could possibly do.

Make no mistake, Mary and I appreciate the splendor of large homes. Our small one was supposed to be a five-year stop. A loving brother-in-law, and big-house owner, once told me, "You only live once." I agree. So why yoke one's peace to a wrenching mortgage punctuated with the demands of heating and cooling, maintenance and taxes?

Now we're in something of a national real estate readjustment or whatever. People have lost their homes, large and small, but mostly large if you follow the news. And I do have empathy, for Mary and I have managed every single payment, on time, for 20 years, living within our means. But I have no sympathy for the very same reason.

I know that foreclosures happen, because so does hard luck, and ill-advised grand dreams. But too many had their eyes closed with selfish priorities, on a floor waxed with a juvenile faith in providence.

In our home, we neither heat nor cool lofty spaces above stairways or foyers that only arachnids use. So content am I that I've fantasized of one day loading our house upon some crawling flatbed and moving it to Cape May, or to the rolling hills of central Pennsylvania.

Across the years, I suppose the big house we never wanted bad enough couldn't bully itself ahead of other issues. Such as, are our children safe? Are we happy? Am I teaching well? Is Mary's work satisfying? Is my wrestling team formidable? Do I have summer work?

I should paint our little house, but I probably won't because I can afford paying someone else to do it. You see, small houses snuggle and liberate at once. "You wouldn't mind a couple of trips to Europe, would you, George?" Mr. Potter taunted George Bailey in the seasonal classic "It's a Wonderful Life."

Meanwhile, among new friends, that certain silence sometimes happens again whenever we mention where we live, in the Hollybrook neighborhood. The motivation's always polite, but unnecessary. We suffer no misfortune of neighborhood, no misdemeanor of choice.

We're also empty-nesters now, Mary and I. And I think I like it better than she, who misses something I never knew. Anyway, it's our first apartment all over again - small spaces to manage, open doors everywhere. We've shanghaied the kids' rooms as temporary closets, and we leave projects about. Except for her Advil PM and my Metamucil, we're kids again.

We never hear, "You've got a beautiful home." But we have a beautiful life.

Larry Kimport, of Lumberton, teaches high school, coaches varsity wrestling and writes fiction, most recently "At the Table of Want," a Pine Barrens coming-of-age love story.

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