Like most academic types, I spend way too much time living in my own head. A project that takes a half hour to manifest has stewed internally for days while I've gathered multivocalic threads to study from a few too many angles and perspectives. A friend refers to this as "falling down the rabbit hole," and I think he may be right.
What does this have to do with seasons in New York? Well, not much, really. It connects only in that I often get so caught up in my own research and thoughts that I'm temporarily blind to everything else going on around me. It's hell on relationships. The more patient of my friends slowly back away, knowing that I'll come out of it eventually. Others are less so, giving me a swift metaphoric kick in the backside as a reminder that "Helloo, we're still here." As much as I hate to admit it, I need both kinds. Something, by the way, that I had to move here to learn.
Having spent the last few weeks buried in research about Deaf grammar acquisition and best practices for tutoring students on the autism spectrum; working on conference proposals and brainstorming outreach possibilities, and keeping my students and my staff engaged with their learning processes, I have been far less present than I think I want to be. Presence, in this example, means being cognizant of my surroundings and the people who populate them. Present as in awake and aware and engaged with the external because that is what adds dimension and color to our internal lives.
So if you see me walking around in my own private fog, give me a hug and point me toward home. It's not far away.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Season of Giving
One of the greatest pleasures of being an outsider is noticing things that others have come to expect and, at times, take for granted.
We went to lunch up the street, at the bakery/cafe our friends own. I am currently having a mad love affair with their pumpkin bisque and will be sad to see it gone. But, like all things, pumpkin bisque has a season, and I will joyfully consume it until it gives way to whatever comes next.
While we were waiting for our food, a middle-aged man came in and ordered something to go. He sat down at the table behind ours, and a few minutes later, walked over handed CS something and said, "This is for you to have on Halloween--so you'll be seen and won't get hit by a car. I've been hit. It's not fun." It was a battery-operated flashlight/lightstick with a cord so that he can wear it and have his hands free for the candy he's anxiously looking forward to. A small gift, but one so thoughtful and unexpected that it felt, for a moment, like Christmas.
It gave me enough pause that I took a minute to reflect on the unexpected gifts that are so easily overlooked.
My child, for all of his talents, is not a natural athlete. He decided he wanted to play hockey despite the fact that his first time on the ice was, for all intents and purposes, his first time skating. I worry. I worry that he'll be slow to learn, that his coaches and teammates will be impatient and unyielding, that he'll decide eventually not to pick himself up and keep going. And I would understand all of these, because all too often it is easiest and most efficient to celebrate talent and let the rest go.
My fears, so far, have been unfounded. Instead of those reproaches, he has been welcomed to the ice and the team. It is an established fact that he's not ready to play--he's slow, doesn't know the game, doesn't move with the same fluidity as the rest of the kids. But he keeps working at it. From the first session a month ago until last night's first game, he's made huge improvements in his skating ability, and he's worked harder at it that I would ever have imagined. But he still has a very long way to go. His head coach and the rest of the coaching staff, have been one of those gifts. Coach Jess said to me last week, "I was talking with the other coaches last week, and we believe he's part of our team for a reason. We're glad he's with us, because we have things to teach each other."
Last night was the first game of the season. I had prepared my boy for sitting on the bench during the game, and suggested he use the time to watch and learn and ask questions. His dad and I sat in the stands, watching a great hockey game and then, in the second period, they put him in. He wobbled out onto the ice, looking like a fawn just discovering it's newly unfolding legs. We were sitting next to his best friend's mom, and the two of us started cheering and clapping as he made his way onto the ice. And then the rest of parents in the stands, our team and theirs, joined us. He was so intent on finding his position and being aware of the game that he never heard us cheering. But I did, and it was a gift that nurtured and reminded me that it is all too easy to over look what matters the most.
There are people for whom this kind of giving is a natural as breathing. The friend who randomly sends me texts saying "I love you"; the one who finds her life's purpose in helping others out of the mire of addicition; the one who overthinks everything for fear of being insensitive or thoughtless to others when in fact she is one of the most caring, loving people I've had the privilege to meet; and the one who quietly takes care of everyone else despite the fact that his life, lately, has been one massive hurdle after another.
It is all too easy to take each of them, and each of us, for granted. Sometimes, it takes a wobbly boy on skates, and a token of caring to remind us. And that reminder, too, is a gift.
We went to lunch up the street, at the bakery/cafe our friends own. I am currently having a mad love affair with their pumpkin bisque and will be sad to see it gone. But, like all things, pumpkin bisque has a season, and I will joyfully consume it until it gives way to whatever comes next.
While we were waiting for our food, a middle-aged man came in and ordered something to go. He sat down at the table behind ours, and a few minutes later, walked over handed CS something and said, "This is for you to have on Halloween--so you'll be seen and won't get hit by a car. I've been hit. It's not fun." It was a battery-operated flashlight/lightstick with a cord so that he can wear it and have his hands free for the candy he's anxiously looking forward to. A small gift, but one so thoughtful and unexpected that it felt, for a moment, like Christmas.
It gave me enough pause that I took a minute to reflect on the unexpected gifts that are so easily overlooked.
My child, for all of his talents, is not a natural athlete. He decided he wanted to play hockey despite the fact that his first time on the ice was, for all intents and purposes, his first time skating. I worry. I worry that he'll be slow to learn, that his coaches and teammates will be impatient and unyielding, that he'll decide eventually not to pick himself up and keep going. And I would understand all of these, because all too often it is easiest and most efficient to celebrate talent and let the rest go.
My fears, so far, have been unfounded. Instead of those reproaches, he has been welcomed to the ice and the team. It is an established fact that he's not ready to play--he's slow, doesn't know the game, doesn't move with the same fluidity as the rest of the kids. But he keeps working at it. From the first session a month ago until last night's first game, he's made huge improvements in his skating ability, and he's worked harder at it that I would ever have imagined. But he still has a very long way to go. His head coach and the rest of the coaching staff, have been one of those gifts. Coach Jess said to me last week, "I was talking with the other coaches last week, and we believe he's part of our team for a reason. We're glad he's with us, because we have things to teach each other."
Last night was the first game of the season. I had prepared my boy for sitting on the bench during the game, and suggested he use the time to watch and learn and ask questions. His dad and I sat in the stands, watching a great hockey game and then, in the second period, they put him in. He wobbled out onto the ice, looking like a fawn just discovering it's newly unfolding legs. We were sitting next to his best friend's mom, and the two of us started cheering and clapping as he made his way onto the ice. And then the rest of parents in the stands, our team and theirs, joined us. He was so intent on finding his position and being aware of the game that he never heard us cheering. But I did, and it was a gift that nurtured and reminded me that it is all too easy to over look what matters the most.
There are people for whom this kind of giving is a natural as breathing. The friend who randomly sends me texts saying "I love you"; the one who finds her life's purpose in helping others out of the mire of addicition; the one who overthinks everything for fear of being insensitive or thoughtless to others when in fact she is one of the most caring, loving people I've had the privilege to meet; and the one who quietly takes care of everyone else despite the fact that his life, lately, has been one massive hurdle after another.
It is all too easy to take each of them, and each of us, for granted. Sometimes, it takes a wobbly boy on skates, and a token of caring to remind us. And that reminder, too, is a gift.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Fall
It must be fall, because we just came home from the corn maze and have scattered pumpkins across our front porch steps.
We've been waiting for the perfect fall weekend, one of those glorious days when the sun shines, the temperature hovers in the mid-50's, and there is just the slightest breeze crisping the air. Unfortunately, this fall's glory days have limited themselves to mid-week, when we're at school, at scouts, at hockey, or just too tired to move. So we went today, and although the temperature remained in the low 50's, the clouds refused to budge and the air still has a hint of damp from last night's rain.
The paths through the maze were muddy and, truth told, without the sun adding some dimension it eventually all just starts to look like corn.
There is something mournful about this time of year. We celebrate the harvest, and Halloween, and prepare for those things called "The Holidays" as if to distract ourselves from the quickly emptying tree branches and the chill that becomes more pronounced each day.
My garden is full of black walnuts; my front yard is filled with spiky chestnuts, both from trees planted multiple generations of homeowners ago. The squirrels scramble to gather as many as they can before the inevitable snows fall and every morning, I must remind my son to wear a sweatshirt despite his 9-year-old-boy protestations that it isn't really cold outside.
Time itself somehow becomes more precious, and I try to hoard it by refusing to spend it on any but the most needful pursuits. Like corn mazes and choosing the right pumpkins for the front porch. Excluding my family, I spend less time with the people I most love and this feeds the malaise of the season, making it all to easy to overlook the gift of being in a time and place that is home.
And then the silliest, most inconsequential things remind me that place and belonging are matters of choice, and that I have chosen well.
We've been waiting for the perfect fall weekend, one of those glorious days when the sun shines, the temperature hovers in the mid-50's, and there is just the slightest breeze crisping the air. Unfortunately, this fall's glory days have limited themselves to mid-week, when we're at school, at scouts, at hockey, or just too tired to move. So we went today, and although the temperature remained in the low 50's, the clouds refused to budge and the air still has a hint of damp from last night's rain.
The paths through the maze were muddy and, truth told, without the sun adding some dimension it eventually all just starts to look like corn.
There is something mournful about this time of year. We celebrate the harvest, and Halloween, and prepare for those things called "The Holidays" as if to distract ourselves from the quickly emptying tree branches and the chill that becomes more pronounced each day.
My garden is full of black walnuts; my front yard is filled with spiky chestnuts, both from trees planted multiple generations of homeowners ago. The squirrels scramble to gather as many as they can before the inevitable snows fall and every morning, I must remind my son to wear a sweatshirt despite his 9-year-old-boy protestations that it isn't really cold outside.
Time itself somehow becomes more precious, and I try to hoard it by refusing to spend it on any but the most needful pursuits. Like corn mazes and choosing the right pumpkins for the front porch. Excluding my family, I spend less time with the people I most love and this feeds the malaise of the season, making it all to easy to overlook the gift of being in a time and place that is home.
And then the silliest, most inconsequential things remind me that place and belonging are matters of choice, and that I have chosen well.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Perseverance
We were supposed to be at Scout camp today. My little one is finally a Webelo, and we were going to our first overnight at the big Scout camp. We should be doing things like archery, shooting BB guns, and eating hobo dinners. Tonight, we would sit around the campfire singing goofy songs and eating s'mores before crashing in our tent. Yes, tent.
Instead, it is 45 degrees and raining outside. Between the weather and that fact that we've both been sick with respiratory ick, well, the tent we've borrowed will remain safely in the back of my car.
Sure, it's turned fall pretty quickly out there. I have a pot of onion soup simmering, the yard needs raking, and I would really enjoy a nap right about now. That said, I tend to think of this as back to school season--the real fall (for me) comes when we hit the corn mazes, make things out of pumpkins and drink cider in its various forms (warm, cold, spiced, straight, spiked).
Back to school season, on the other hand, includes things like new pencils, bus schedules, and bought v home-packed lunches. This year, it also means that CS gets to learn how to play an instrument (the cello), join the snow sports club (snowboard), and he's decided to try a new sport (ice hockey even though he's never played, and doesn't know how to skate).
Of these, the most unexpected was his decision to try hockey.
Before the move here, he had zero interest in any organized sport. Or disorganized sport either, if I'm honest. His willingness to try new things was limited to TV programs, and all too often his fear of failure kept him from participating in new things.
I don't know what it is about his place, but something has empowered this kid. I first noticed it last year, when he joined the chess club. I assumed he'd go once or twice and then drop out. He surprised me by sticking with it. Not only did he stay with it, but he went back week after week and never won a game. I'd pick him up after school, ask how he did, and he'd say things like "I lost, but next week I'm going to try a different move and see if it goes better." Come spring, he wanted to play lacrosse and I said "only if you commit to the whole season." He's a terrible player, but loves the sport and is looking forward to going back next year. Before coming here, he would've walked away without even a backward glance.
In education we call this perseverance. Perseverance is marked by a willingness to keep trying, even when we might fail, and the ability to look at failure and make plans to keep going. I don't know what changed, but I do know that each time he tries something new and goes back for more; each time he fails but gets back up and keeps going, I lose my breath to a rush of gratitude.
So here we are, at the opening volley of another school year. There are new friends to make, a cello to play, hockey equipment to beg, borrow, steal, or (if we must) buy. Lunches to pack, buses to catch, Iroquois longhouses to build. There will be joy, and loss, and another chance to camp out with the Webelos. We don't get to predict what comes next, and don't get to control much outside of our own tiny selves, but we will persevere.
I'm a little disappointed that we're not camping tonight, but mostly I'm looking forward to onion soup and a chance to cuddle with my kid while we watch Ghostbusters. Tomorrow is soon enough for cello practice and hockey equipment.
Instead, it is 45 degrees and raining outside. Between the weather and that fact that we've both been sick with respiratory ick, well, the tent we've borrowed will remain safely in the back of my car.
Sure, it's turned fall pretty quickly out there. I have a pot of onion soup simmering, the yard needs raking, and I would really enjoy a nap right about now. That said, I tend to think of this as back to school season--the real fall (for me) comes when we hit the corn mazes, make things out of pumpkins and drink cider in its various forms (warm, cold, spiced, straight, spiked).
Back to school season, on the other hand, includes things like new pencils, bus schedules, and bought v home-packed lunches. This year, it also means that CS gets to learn how to play an instrument (the cello), join the snow sports club (snowboard), and he's decided to try a new sport (ice hockey even though he's never played, and doesn't know how to skate).
Of these, the most unexpected was his decision to try hockey.
Before the move here, he had zero interest in any organized sport. Or disorganized sport either, if I'm honest. His willingness to try new things was limited to TV programs, and all too often his fear of failure kept him from participating in new things.
I don't know what it is about his place, but something has empowered this kid. I first noticed it last year, when he joined the chess club. I assumed he'd go once or twice and then drop out. He surprised me by sticking with it. Not only did he stay with it, but he went back week after week and never won a game. I'd pick him up after school, ask how he did, and he'd say things like "I lost, but next week I'm going to try a different move and see if it goes better." Come spring, he wanted to play lacrosse and I said "only if you commit to the whole season." He's a terrible player, but loves the sport and is looking forward to going back next year. Before coming here, he would've walked away without even a backward glance.
In education we call this perseverance. Perseverance is marked by a willingness to keep trying, even when we might fail, and the ability to look at failure and make plans to keep going. I don't know what changed, but I do know that each time he tries something new and goes back for more; each time he fails but gets back up and keeps going, I lose my breath to a rush of gratitude.
So here we are, at the opening volley of another school year. There are new friends to make, a cello to play, hockey equipment to beg, borrow, steal, or (if we must) buy. Lunches to pack, buses to catch, Iroquois longhouses to build. There will be joy, and loss, and another chance to camp out with the Webelos. We don't get to predict what comes next, and don't get to control much outside of our own tiny selves, but we will persevere.
I'm a little disappointed that we're not camping tonight, but mostly I'm looking forward to onion soup and a chance to cuddle with my kid while we watch Ghostbusters. Tomorrow is soon enough for cello practice and hockey equipment.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Repositioning. A post in four parts
Repositioning is a term used by cruise lines to designate journeys from one originating port to another. So, if a ship has spent the summer, oh let's dream, sailing around Italy, and if that ship will spent winter traveling among the Caribbean Islands, it has to get from point A (Italy) to point B (Cape Canaveral, perhaps). The trip is then named a repositioning cruise. Now that I've been here for two years and we own a house, I can't really argue that I'm still journeying to the center of New York. I've realized that it's time to reposition this blog.
******
Over Labor Day weekend, the last (unofficial) weekend of summer, the commuter boys and I went to the local water park for the last time. It is an outdoor-only water park that closes after Labor Day weekend. A lot of our community members would like to see it recreated as one of the big indoor/outdoor water parks ala Great Wolf Lodge. I like GWL--it's a great, quick weekend getaway when the snow is making us buggy and Florida is out of the question. But it goes against a trend that is dominant here: seasonality.
One of the things that I most love and am most fascinated by here in our new home is this quiet emphasis on seasonality. We are a region that celebrates each season in its own time and way, and I think this is something worth embracing. I also realized, as CD and I were discussing it, that this is what I want to write about as we continue exploring our new home.
*****
The weather has turned autumnal, but the trees are still dominantly green. The primary boat launch is closed, but on sunny afternoons sailboats still dot the lake even though it's a bit chilly for all be the hardiest of our waterbabies. Concord grapes and early apples are in at the farmer's market, along with the last of the tomatoes and the fall harvest honey. The vendor explained that the fall harvest is a mixed seasonal honey, often consisting of goldenrod, thistle, and whatever last flowers are blooming. Like the rest of us, the bees are savoring summer's last hurrah. The honey we bought, raw and unfiltered, is delicious and resembles the national versions found in grocery stores about as much as the jam that I made from our grapes tastes like Smucker's. As much as I love summer, it's fall that I miss most.
Our town also hosted the first annual "get the community out and doing artsy things" event. (To name it would be to give away our little town and I don't feel like sharing.) CS and I, after our market trip, wandered around downtown and created sidewalk chalk art, painted rocks, attended a chocolate demonstration, and other simple, communal things. It's Constitution Day (I did not know this), so CS decided to draw an American flag on his section of sidewalk, then added the words "We The People" as a caption. When I asked why, he explained that 1) it's Constitution Day and 2) communities are made of people, and this one is ours. We passed it on our way to dinner, and it was still there. Undisturbed, but surrounded by a field of chalky flowers.
I've lived in small towns and large cities. In the west, the midwest, the south and now the east, and I'll confess that this is the first time I've lived in a place with such a shared passion for community. One of the advantages of being an outsider is that we can see shapes and patterns that insiders often miss. When I'm asked why I love this place, I always answer "community." I know others, once outsiders, who say the same thing. And yet those who've always been here don't see it, don't realize what it is that they have, or how rare it is. I hope that I never lose the ability to see things from the outside, that I don't lose the sense of magic and wonder that come from finding what has been missing.
*****
This is New York. On September 11, CD came inside and said "there are firetrucks outside. One is in front of the bakery (owned by friends), the other is across the street. I hope nothing's burning." Our first concern was for our friend's business, but there was no smoke, there were no sirens. Instead, there was this:
a slow, silent parade marking the 10th year since the attack on the twin towers. CS, who is a proud cub Scout, stood at the curb and as a group of service men and women walked by he gave them the two-fingered Scout salute. To a person, they returned his homage.
This place, these people? Home. We're a little goofy, a lot caring, and we love to celebrate the changing of the seasons. For this next year I plan to write about the seasons as they change, how we embrace them, and how they shape our world here in this corner of upstate New York. I'm looking forward to it, and hope you are too.
--CM
******
Over Labor Day weekend, the last (unofficial) weekend of summer, the commuter boys and I went to the local water park for the last time. It is an outdoor-only water park that closes after Labor Day weekend. A lot of our community members would like to see it recreated as one of the big indoor/outdoor water parks ala Great Wolf Lodge. I like GWL--it's a great, quick weekend getaway when the snow is making us buggy and Florida is out of the question. But it goes against a trend that is dominant here: seasonality.
One of the things that I most love and am most fascinated by here in our new home is this quiet emphasis on seasonality. We are a region that celebrates each season in its own time and way, and I think this is something worth embracing. I also realized, as CD and I were discussing it, that this is what I want to write about as we continue exploring our new home.
*****
The weather has turned autumnal, but the trees are still dominantly green. The primary boat launch is closed, but on sunny afternoons sailboats still dot the lake even though it's a bit chilly for all be the hardiest of our waterbabies. Concord grapes and early apples are in at the farmer's market, along with the last of the tomatoes and the fall harvest honey. The vendor explained that the fall harvest is a mixed seasonal honey, often consisting of goldenrod, thistle, and whatever last flowers are blooming. Like the rest of us, the bees are savoring summer's last hurrah. The honey we bought, raw and unfiltered, is delicious and resembles the national versions found in grocery stores about as much as the jam that I made from our grapes tastes like Smucker's. As much as I love summer, it's fall that I miss most.
Our town also hosted the first annual "get the community out and doing artsy things" event. (To name it would be to give away our little town and I don't feel like sharing.) CS and I, after our market trip, wandered around downtown and created sidewalk chalk art, painted rocks, attended a chocolate demonstration, and other simple, communal things. It's Constitution Day (I did not know this), so CS decided to draw an American flag on his section of sidewalk, then added the words "We The People" as a caption. When I asked why, he explained that 1) it's Constitution Day and 2) communities are made of people, and this one is ours. We passed it on our way to dinner, and it was still there. Undisturbed, but surrounded by a field of chalky flowers.
I've lived in small towns and large cities. In the west, the midwest, the south and now the east, and I'll confess that this is the first time I've lived in a place with such a shared passion for community. One of the advantages of being an outsider is that we can see shapes and patterns that insiders often miss. When I'm asked why I love this place, I always answer "community." I know others, once outsiders, who say the same thing. And yet those who've always been here don't see it, don't realize what it is that they have, or how rare it is. I hope that I never lose the ability to see things from the outside, that I don't lose the sense of magic and wonder that come from finding what has been missing.
*****
This is New York. On September 11, CD came inside and said "there are firetrucks outside. One is in front of the bakery (owned by friends), the other is across the street. I hope nothing's burning." Our first concern was for our friend's business, but there was no smoke, there were no sirens. Instead, there was this:
a slow, silent parade marking the 10th year since the attack on the twin towers. CS, who is a proud cub Scout, stood at the curb and as a group of service men and women walked by he gave them the two-fingered Scout salute. To a person, they returned his homage.
This place, these people? Home. We're a little goofy, a lot caring, and we love to celebrate the changing of the seasons. For this next year I plan to write about the seasons as they change, how we embrace them, and how they shape our world here in this corner of upstate New York. I'm looking forward to it, and hope you are too.
--CM
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Travis's House
I have been crabby all day. It started with a "Why can't I access my e-bill" utilities battle that made me late for an important meeting. I know, we all have those days. But it doesn't mean I have to like it.
Fast-forward to this evening when I met the paralegal in charge of my landlord's affairs and we did the final walk-through of the house we rented last year. She asked about the house we bought, I told her, she thought for a second and said "Oh, Travis's house." We talked about Travis for a minute (I only know him by posthumous reputation), then parted and I headed to the grocery store.
Some [really jerky] guy did one of those obnoxious parking-lot cut-offs. The kind where car A (me) is traveling down the aisle while car B ([jerky guy]) cuts through and does a near-miss. It is a lucky thing that I didn't encounter him in the store, because I had a loud diatribe prepared for him. It was about the development and propagation of [jerky guy] cultures, and how I'd just moved AWAY from one of those places and I was by God not going to live in another one. I was ready to let him have it, which is completely not what I would normally do. But I've been pretty crabby today.
I paid for the five things I went in for, and drove home. To Travis's house. I put things away, started wiping down the counters, and realized that while this will always be Travis's house, it will also always be my house. For the first time in my 40-some years, I'm not looking around the corner to see what else, what more interesting place, is waiting. I'm home. And suddenly, like a quiet breeze through the kitchen window, I'm not crabby anymore.
Fast-forward to this evening when I met the paralegal in charge of my landlord's affairs and we did the final walk-through of the house we rented last year. She asked about the house we bought, I told her, she thought for a second and said "Oh, Travis's house." We talked about Travis for a minute (I only know him by posthumous reputation), then parted and I headed to the grocery store.
Some [really jerky] guy did one of those obnoxious parking-lot cut-offs. The kind where car A (me) is traveling down the aisle while car B ([jerky guy]) cuts through and does a near-miss. It is a lucky thing that I didn't encounter him in the store, because I had a loud diatribe prepared for him. It was about the development and propagation of [jerky guy] cultures, and how I'd just moved AWAY from one of those places and I was by God not going to live in another one. I was ready to let him have it, which is completely not what I would normally do. But I've been pretty crabby today.
I paid for the five things I went in for, and drove home. To Travis's house. I put things away, started wiping down the counters, and realized that while this will always be Travis's house, it will also always be my house. For the first time in my 40-some years, I'm not looking around the corner to see what else, what more interesting place, is waiting. I'm home. And suddenly, like a quiet breeze through the kitchen window, I'm not crabby anymore.
Monday, July 4, 2011
Little Pink Houses
We are the proud owners of a slightly sprawling, slightly ramshackle pink house on Main Street. The floors dip, the roof sags, the porch has been painted over so many times we can count the layers in the peeling chips, and did I mention that it’s pink?
After we had signed the papers, Commuter Dad and I walked into our house and stood there, both shell-shocked and thinking “What have we gotten ourselves into?” Our previous houses were new builds, with even floors, central air, new appliances and professional landscaping all conveniently located in homogeneous neighborhoods where, frankly, we just didn’t quite fit.
We have too many books and not enough televisions; more interest in cooking, or reading, or playing, than in cleaning and keeping up appearances. “She kept a clean house” is not what I want as my epitaph. But the funny thing about where we choose to live is that we, often unconsciously, try to fit ourselves into the gestalt of that space. Our houses never quite fit, even when we tried to force ourselves into those molds.
The story of this house—our coming to this house—starts before we’d even started looking. I was at the grocery store one afternoon, loading up the back of my mom-car when an older woman with bright red hair and a small child in tow stopped to ask about the Coexist sticker on the back of my car. It let to a long conversation about the nature of “alternative” religions and lifestyles, and the ways we find acceptance and peace in our varied beliefs. During the conversation, she mentioned her daughter-in-law, how she and her late husband had owned a new-agey shop in town (one that I had quite liked). It had recently closed, and her daughter-in-law was trying to sell her house because she was ready for a new beginning. The woman expressed sadness that the daughter-in-law was leaving, but hope that she would find what she needed to move forward.
Two months later, our real estate agent brought me and Commuter Son to this house. The moment we walked through the front door, I was overwhelmed by a sense of utter joyfulness. It wasn’t the furnishings, or the décor, or any other tangible thing. It was simply a part of the mortar and bricks of the house itself.
The homeowner was present and did the walk-through with us, pointing out what had been some of her favorite things (the library with built-in bookshelves, for example). She pointed to some boxes in the middle of the floor and commented that they were from her shop that had recently closed. When she named the shop, I realized that this was the daughter-in-law and I told her about the meeting in the parking-lot, which made her laugh and say that, yes, it sounded just like her late husband’s mother. Then, she opened a door under the stairs and said “We call this the Harry Potter potty.” It is a tiny powder room, just a toilet and sink, tucked into the empty space under the staircase. I laughed, because really, who wouldn’t? When I laughed, she looked at her friend who was here that day and said “She gets it.” The friend nodded—I had passed a test.
Later, they walked us out to our cars (our agent’s and mine), saw the same Coexist sticker, looked at each other and nodded. “She gets it.”
Some wrangling and legalities later, the house is ours. It is quirky, and in need of TLC and paint, but one of my friends who helped us moved walked through and grinned. “This is your house; it’s so you.”
But the story of our house is just beginning.
Today, I took the kiddo and some of his friends to the water park. It was hot and sunny, and its summer break, and they were desperate. While we were gone, Commuter Dad (bless him) hauled some more stuff over from the house we were renting, then spent some time in our new garage. Our seller’s late husband was a potter, and the garage is still home to his kiln and some other supplies. There were also, as CD discovered, some of his clay pieces. One is a large bowl that now lives on our bookshelves; another is a happy, hand-built dragon springing to life from a small block of clay. He is the Labrador retriever of dragons—wanting nothing more than to have his ears rubbed and a ball thrown for a game of fetch.
Out of curiosity, CD then did a search for the late potter and learned that not only was he a husband, father, artist and a shop-owner, but he was integral in designing and rebuilding what is one of our son’s favorite parks. He was respected and active in our community and in charitable organizations. And he died at the age of 36, after a 13-year battle with cancer.
If it is true that where we live shapes us, and if we work to live up to the expectations of that space, then this house is going to challenge us to be the very best that we can. It will push us to grow, and to love, and to give. The joy and the peace that reside in the mortar here aren’t happy accidents; they are reminders that what we give comes back to us often in the most unexpected of ways.
After we had signed the papers, Commuter Dad and I walked into our house and stood there, both shell-shocked and thinking “What have we gotten ourselves into?” Our previous houses were new builds, with even floors, central air, new appliances and professional landscaping all conveniently located in homogeneous neighborhoods where, frankly, we just didn’t quite fit.
We have too many books and not enough televisions; more interest in cooking, or reading, or playing, than in cleaning and keeping up appearances. “She kept a clean house” is not what I want as my epitaph. But the funny thing about where we choose to live is that we, often unconsciously, try to fit ourselves into the gestalt of that space. Our houses never quite fit, even when we tried to force ourselves into those molds.
The story of this house—our coming to this house—starts before we’d even started looking. I was at the grocery store one afternoon, loading up the back of my mom-car when an older woman with bright red hair and a small child in tow stopped to ask about the Coexist sticker on the back of my car. It let to a long conversation about the nature of “alternative” religions and lifestyles, and the ways we find acceptance and peace in our varied beliefs. During the conversation, she mentioned her daughter-in-law, how she and her late husband had owned a new-agey shop in town (one that I had quite liked). It had recently closed, and her daughter-in-law was trying to sell her house because she was ready for a new beginning. The woman expressed sadness that the daughter-in-law was leaving, but hope that she would find what she needed to move forward.
Two months later, our real estate agent brought me and Commuter Son to this house. The moment we walked through the front door, I was overwhelmed by a sense of utter joyfulness. It wasn’t the furnishings, or the décor, or any other tangible thing. It was simply a part of the mortar and bricks of the house itself.
The homeowner was present and did the walk-through with us, pointing out what had been some of her favorite things (the library with built-in bookshelves, for example). She pointed to some boxes in the middle of the floor and commented that they were from her shop that had recently closed. When she named the shop, I realized that this was the daughter-in-law and I told her about the meeting in the parking-lot, which made her laugh and say that, yes, it sounded just like her late husband’s mother. Then, she opened a door under the stairs and said “We call this the Harry Potter potty.” It is a tiny powder room, just a toilet and sink, tucked into the empty space under the staircase. I laughed, because really, who wouldn’t? When I laughed, she looked at her friend who was here that day and said “She gets it.” The friend nodded—I had passed a test.
Later, they walked us out to our cars (our agent’s and mine), saw the same Coexist sticker, looked at each other and nodded. “She gets it.”
Some wrangling and legalities later, the house is ours. It is quirky, and in need of TLC and paint, but one of my friends who helped us moved walked through and grinned. “This is your house; it’s so you.”
But the story of our house is just beginning.
Today, I took the kiddo and some of his friends to the water park. It was hot and sunny, and its summer break, and they were desperate. While we were gone, Commuter Dad (bless him) hauled some more stuff over from the house we were renting, then spent some time in our new garage. Our seller’s late husband was a potter, and the garage is still home to his kiln and some other supplies. There were also, as CD discovered, some of his clay pieces. One is a large bowl that now lives on our bookshelves; another is a happy, hand-built dragon springing to life from a small block of clay. He is the Labrador retriever of dragons—wanting nothing more than to have his ears rubbed and a ball thrown for a game of fetch.
Out of curiosity, CD then did a search for the late potter and learned that not only was he a husband, father, artist and a shop-owner, but he was integral in designing and rebuilding what is one of our son’s favorite parks. He was respected and active in our community and in charitable organizations. And he died at the age of 36, after a 13-year battle with cancer.
If it is true that where we live shapes us, and if we work to live up to the expectations of that space, then this house is going to challenge us to be the very best that we can. It will push us to grow, and to love, and to give. The joy and the peace that reside in the mortar here aren’t happy accidents; they are reminders that what we give comes back to us often in the most unexpected of ways.
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