Goodbye, Old Host

The old man at Lowe's just about made me cry. The "Bigs" (Hunter & Beatha) and I had roamed the store looking for unconventional solutions to a repair job, as I've done many times before. This, however, was one, last job that the buyers' bank required -- a technicality sort of thing that needed done nonetheless. And as I waited for a young man to hand to me the little quart of "Bright White," the older gentleman entered behind the counter to aid other customers -- the fellow who had, six years earlier, mixed gallons of Valspar for me as we painted our exciting, new, home addition: crimson and deep blue for Chad's sports bar, four shades of green and brown for the "camo" wall in Hunter's play room, soft buttery yellow to balance the celery green, pink, and sky blue in Bay's imaginative space . . . Many, many gallons brought to life our designs.  I stood there in a time-warp, feeling as though I was working on MY house, in my work clothes, ready to dash through the checkout and on to the tasks at hand to further the comfort or beauty of our home. The sort of energy and labor that renews the psyche and makes for a solid night of sleep. That day, however, it was just a seller's job, and the last one at that; we were on our way out, and it took everything I had not to drop big fat tears.

That house is full of quirky, old features, teeming with history, and full of my memories. It was our refuge.  I remember well ripping out the indoor-outdoor carpeting that covered the entire upstairs, the chopped-off 2 x 4s that had been a make-shift “railing” on the old stairwell, and the many other inheritances we took on with the property.  Nonetheless, as our first two children, then ages 5 and 2, scampered through the home toward their juice cups, coloring books, and action figures, my heart melded into the quaint, slowly updated, evolving function and aesthetics of the space.  It is also to where our two Haitian children came home, and where Chad and I thought we’d live the rest of our days.    

2004

2015

It’s not full of ornate hardwood or sky-high ceilings, but there’s something to be said for its sprawling cottage feel in which one can breathe easy.  We could entertain a crowd or cozy-in to a quiet nook to read or watch movies and recharge. There's health and energy in the copious natural light that floods in from the many, large windows and nostalgia inspired by those old floor vents -- perfect for drying snow-dampened gloves after the forts, angels, and snowmen have been created in the great back yard. Red cheeks slowly warmed with cocoa by the (new) fireplace.  Strangely, one of my favorite spots is the narrow, twisted, old stairwell -- full of white and light, made in an earlier time for smaller people (and smaller furniture).  

When we finally pulled up the old, worn Berber carpet last year, we could only imagine the day that original floor was laid  .  .  .  Mrs. Benton likely came over with dinner for Mr. Benton and the men helping him (it WAS the 19th century, folks), and she had to have looked at the perfectly-matched boards that created, nonetheless, a clearly crooked line down the center of the dining room.  I imagine some words were had between the two of them.    

The 100+ years of children who have run, skipped, and jumped upon that wood, whispers and giggles infused into the pine of the floor.

We used as the master bedroom the one across from the bathroom, wherein we were surrounded by windows on three sides. In the spring and fall, it was like a wonderful sleeping porch.  The owl across the way, crickets, and frogs made us feel like we were in the country.  

Thick blankets and library books for a backyard picnic were particularly lovely in the spring when the scent of lilacs filled the air and the dogwood glowed white. Snuggling with wet-haired, jammied kids on the porch swing was a nice wind-down to the evenings. There was the summer we grew a vegetable garden, and in the red wagon we wheeled fresh cucumbers and canning jar vases of Black-Eyed Susans to the neighbors. Trick-or-treating on foot around the neighborhood. The short-cut through Rotzes' backyard to the library -- sometimes several times a day! Trikes, then bikes up and down the sidewalk, and on the day of the summer parade, simply stepping out to our front porch and watching it roll by, waving to friends tossing candy.  

Sprinklers, sparklers, and swings.  

2004

                                                                                2015

The foil that set ablaze in the microwave, sending a preschooler screaming out onto the porch in her underwear.  (The few flames died quickly without a trace of damage to the appliance...just the hilarious memory remained.)

The many nights of pulling blue-and-gold attire off of sleeping little kids to tuck them into bed after countless ball games coached by their daddy.  

Those were the years of G.I. Joes and "very" princesses.

The trauma of weeks not knowing the fate of two children in Haiti following that devastating earthquake, followed by the longest year of my life, lobbying night and day two governments for help in getting release for Beatha and Jameson from U.S. custody into family care. And amazing people who rallied by our side, holding us upright on the darkest days. From trauma to healing all right there.

Four years of Hoops for Haiti in support of birth family preservation.

Trips to the state tournament for Chad's basketball teams.

My first, local magazine publication, and then a master's degree.

That 1890s structure that encased years of our quintessential laughter and tears came right near close to being the home in which I'd lived for the longest duration of all the homes I've had. There was hardly an inch of it that I didn't know by heart and hand.

It is with some damp eyes that we say goodbye to the home that embraced us for a critical decade of our narrative.  My last look was at the quote on the mudroom door trim that greeted us each day as we came in from our busy days and nights and wiped our feet before passing beneath it to the family living space. I closed the back door behind me for a final time, feeling the "terribly keen blade" of homesickness.1 It cut and pulled my swelling eyes down through my sinking chest -- so very heavy.  

Deep breath. Keep walking.

The kids' joy at freshly stir-fried Panda Express had lightened the mood during our work-break lunch earlier that day, and as serendipity would have had it, the "fortune" from my cookie read: "Happy events will take place in your home." They did. And they are -- in our house in Watseka where we've integrated our several "homes" into our present lives.  

It's just that letting go is a messy, "mean"-time of the transition. So, about 182 East Ruehl, "the street one block north of Menards," I had been strangely sad that the old girl had been sitting empty, only partially heated; no clickety-clack of dog paws on the floor, no flames in the fireplace, no laughter or bickering or "Kids, get the dishes done!" It had a great sense of place, and I'd become quite convinced in my anthropomorphizing mind and heart that the life of the trees never fully left when they were chopped into lumber and laid as floorboards over a century ago. Once we'd gotten our boxes unpacked in our new abode and could come up for a gasp of air, I realized I felt like we had left her all alone.  

So, it brings me a sense of peace knowing that today, after eight, quiet months, she is finally inhabited, again, with the life of a new family.  

She holds many generations and eras of stories, and I am reconciling, slowly, that we were to be sojourners only for our season.

And on that work day a few weeks ago -- our last time standing in the physical space of our memories, with the uneven front step, the wooden front doors I refinished by hand upon saw horses in that front yard, and the window view from my old office out to the kids' ball hoop -- we pulled out of the driveway, and Hunt suggested I get myself some Starbucks and (sly smile on his face) drive through DQ for Blizzards. So, we did just that and indulged quietly in our respective treats as we set out for the long drive home.



1. Stephen King, The Breathing Method (A phrase from a longer quote excerpt my sister lovingly shared with me many months ago.)
"Mean time" as a way to understand the struggles of "in the meantime" is a concept shared with me, also, by my sister, Remy.

Sisters

I recently messaged a dear friend that if she and I and my other sister-friends lived near one another in a suite of apartments, "they" would have to turn it into a high-quality dramedy -- as good as M.A.S.H.  Not a war zone, just real, honest, quirky, humble, hilarious life.  And then it hit me like a ton of bricks -- the obvious -- the allure of The Big Bang Theory and the old NBC Friends  .  .  .  the yearning to have "our tribe" right there, right HERE, with us, surrounding us.

Sigh  .  .  .

And then I got sick.  Well, actually, it was when I had stayed sick due to the first, 10-day prescription of antibiotics not killing it off.  I'm messaging with aforementioned friend (who lives in Heyworth), and another sister-friend (in Iowa) calls to give me medical advice and to hear how my voice sounds, and another (in Maroa) messages out of the blue that she misses me.  I get home late from my son's 2-hour-away Sectional basketball game, not having been home since before work early that morning.  I am dragging exhausted, snorting, sneezing, and coughing.  I have a migraine hammering my head and nauseating my stomach.  But there's a box on my desk that had apparently arrived in the mail that day -- from my college friend who lives in the Chicago 'burbs.  It's a tea cup, vanilla caramel tea, and dark chocolates filled with salted caramel...and a card telling me to take care to rest myself.

Nurturing treats brought into my home, a voice on my land line, letters and script across my phone and computer screens.  So, it's not adjoining apartments, but my sisters -- in Pennsylvania, Kansas, Iowa, and many locales up and down Illinois -- are all right here.