Monday, July 6, 2015

This old house

What a lovely stretch of weather we've been having in my hometown this week.  After nearly two months of practically non-stop rainfall, I thought we had been magically transported to the Pacific northwest, but alas...five days in a row of sunshine and moderate temps finally gave me the chance to repair a leaky window frame on my sun porch.  So last Friday I pulled out my trusty caulk knife and got to work.  Unfortunately the job turned out to be a lot more work that I thought, for as I pulled back the old grout, a huge chunk of the wood frame came with it. In fact, the more I poked the rotten wood, the more it crumbled onto the sill like a stale brownie. 
My first thought was How long has this been rotting?
My second thought was  Where's Norm Abram when you need him?
But then I did what I always do and found a YouTube video that showed me how to repair dry rot and got to work.  Pronto.

When I was a kid, rainy Sunday afternoons were filled with PBS "how to" shows, and my favorite was This Old House.  Each week I marveled at how Norm and his crew could renovate and repair even the hairiest of horrors an ancient abode could dish up.  Mind you, I had no desire to learn how to do any of it myself.  It was just a heck of a lot of fun to watch the pros at work.  Maybe that's how people feel when they watch me knit a pair of socks and say, "I could never do that!"
Yet since I became a home owner, I've had the furnace and air conditioning replaced (after the old one caught on fire while I was hostessing a baby shower), put in new windows (as the old casements leaked cold air and rainwater), a new roof (the old one was rotting beyond repair), refinished the hardwood floors (which were hidden treasures beneath the carpeting I had laid that Labor Day weekend in 1991), and redecorated every single room in the house at least three times. 
It's been a heck of a lot of work, but I'm proud to say I've learned a lot in the process...and not just about home repair.
         
While I never imagined I would live here almost twenty-five years (and have tried to escape a time or two), my home has been a touchstone as I have traversed the precarious canyon from early adulthood to middle age.   For the initial decade, it was an anchor to the past and all the things I thought I should be.  I attended a church closer to my house and joined the choir, as well as various other committees.  When I watched most of my friends get married, I sank my roots deeply into creating a nest of my own.  When they started having babies, I volunteered as a nursery nanny at Toledo Hospital where I rocked newborns on Monday nights, fulfilling my need to love and nurture something outside of myself. 
In the second decade, the stability of the house provided a platform from which to jump into the unknown.  When I realized I would need to leave teaching if I were to ever create a healthy family, the house provided a sanctuary for me to build a yoga business.  Here I have written six novels, six children’s books, and countless blogs and articles.  Here I have painstakingly taken myself apart and meticulously put myself back together again.  And have done so more than once.
In 2008, when my heart was set on moving to Big Sur, I put the house on the market and left in April of that year, never anticipating the devastating financial crash that was soon to follow.  In the hopes of ridding myself of all ties to my past, I lowered the price on the house twice, then hit my limit.  At that time, I prayed for someone, anyone, to come along and relieve me of what I considered to be a tremendous albatross.  My friend, Yvonne, recently revealed that during the year I was gone, she earnestly prayed my house would not sell, that I didn't seem fully content and happy to be in California. 
I'm glad that she knows me so well, and even more so, overjoyed that Yvonne's prayers were answered instead of mine.

I imagine the many incarnations my home and gardens have encountered are actually reflections of my inner growth, the struggles I have encountered, the new colors I have learned to paint with, both internally and externally.  Each room has been gleaned of its excess and honed until it personifies a season.  My bedroom is winter into spring with its warm and cool colors blended effortlessly with undertones of green.  In my dining room, I painted the cornices with wildflowers and decorated it with things that represent the renewal of springtime.  The office and connected sun porch reflect summertime with their bright yellow walls and white curtains.  My favorite season, autumn, is echoed in the living room where earthy colors are anchored by a beautiful pine wood floor, a gift of the original owner.
Through all these years my home and surrounding gardens have been the constants in my life, the longest commitments I have ever made and kept.  They have been peaceful companions as I have made the slow, steady transition from school teacher to yoga instructor to novelist to writer.  They have witnessed every tear and triumph, every fit of anger and rage of fear.  As the house is sixty-five years old, it's caused me grief and pushed me to my financial limits, but it's also challenged me to be always mindful of my continual evolution. 
And always,  it has been both a respite and an incredibly peaceful sanctuary.

A few summers ago I walked up the stairs from the basement and when I reached the kitchen, I stood in awe, realizing that this home is truly mine.  Everything in it belongs to me.  Every room, every object, every memory.  This house and all the growth that surrounds it are touchstones and symbols of myself.  For it is within the safe haven of these walls that I continually learn to embrace the life I have been given. 
The longer I live here, the more beautiful the gardens, the more comforting the rooms.  Still, I have grown less attached to the tangible nature of my house.  Its structure is simply the foundation, but my spirit has been the transforming element, the gardener, the decorator, and the inherent nurturer.  And with this discovery has come the joyful awareness that I have the ability to create a home wherever I might live in the future.
One day this old house will belong to another, and when it does, I pray that whoever lives within these walls will feel safe enough, as I have, to tell their own story and to tell it well.

No...this isn't my old house, but it's just as charming!