SOLSC 2022 #11 - House and home

It is March 2022 and time for the

 15th Annual Slice of Life Story Challenge  

Every single day, for all thirty-one days of March,

writers will share stories.

Thank you, Two Writing Teachers, for creating this supportive community 

of teacher-writers!

Thirty-four (34). Tomorrow. That's how many years we've been married, how long we've lived together in this dear home.

Thirty-one (31). That's how many years ago we added onto our house, creating a new family room/kitchen.

Seven (7). That's how many months it's been since our contractor first drew our attention to the sagging ceiling in our kitchen/family room.

Five (5). That's how many drywall holes that have been cut, as we try to decipher the enormity of work that must be done in order to correct the structural issues in our house. 

Two (2). That's how many times the blueprints have been revised, as the structural engineer and contractor discover more issues. 

Yesterday. That's when the contractor explained in detail the work that must be done. 

One (1). That's how many new steel beams we will be putting in our home. 

That last line is so succinct - wildly oppositional to the grueling mental slog this work has been to date and the work that must yet be done.  Let's be serious: no 'real' work has even started. I hold no false illusions about the future weeks/months of construction being any easier than this discovery phase. 

It's going to get ugly. 

The months that lie ahead will offer lots of great mindfulness practice; I will be an expert by project's completion.

Time to lose myself in a good book!!

284 out of 376 - That's how many pages I have read so far of Sarah Broom's memoir The Yellow House.* What a great read, especially for me at this time. She writes about her family and their home in New Orleans East, and by no means can I compare my situation to this one - her childhood home is completely destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. But throughout the book, Ms. Broom offers such beautiful reflections on 'place' - how the walls that surround us, the ground we walk on, the people we grow alongside, these feed our souls. 

In the midst of my own home falling apart, these words of hers resonate: 

"The family grew into all the spaces of the house: all rooms were multipurpose; all were lived in, the family's traces everywhere. Everything was used; nothing existed solely for show."

"...Mom was convinced. She had grown to believe that the objects contained within a house spoke loudest about the person to whom the things belonged. More than that, she believed that the individual belonged to the things inside the house, to the house itself."

"It could be said, too, my engineer friend told me, speaking more metaphorically than she was comfortable with, that the house was not tethered to its foundation, that what held the house to its foundation of sill on piers, wood on bricks, was the weight of us all in the house, the weight of the house itself, the weight of our things in the house. This is the only explanation I want to accept."

"I said the moment you want to leave is probably when you should try hard to stay."

This poignant memoir is making me think -

I need to write more about my home. I need to write into the emotions that are coming up for me as we do this big fix. More to come! More to come!

*If you are interested in learning a little more about Sarah Broom's The Yellow House, here is a seven minute PBS interview with Sarah Broom. Here, she shares the 'why' behind her work - and offers some insight into her writing and research process.

Home Work

These past few months, we've been living in a rather sad version of If You Give a Mouse a Cookie, with one simple home improvement idea (hey, honey, let's get our wood floors refinished!) leading to - unearthing, really - a host of other issues. Isn't this always true of houses? Of teaching? Of any work? One sweet idea and the next thing you know, you are immersed in something tangential, then something else, and else again, on and on.

I've been surprised at how sad I am about the discovery that we have major repairs to make to the existing structure of our home. Yes, truly sad. Quite unexpectedly. 

Here's how I know: when the contractor shared impressive, clear, careful details of the work we must do, I burst into tears as soon as he left our house.

A good friend suggested that I am perhaps feeling a sense of grief, a sense of loss. The more I think about it, I think she is right.

We have an older home (1938). I like to say - "old enough to have problems, not old enough to be anything extraordinary." But, we have loved this home. It's been my home throughout our marriage (my husband bought it before we married) - some 33 years now. It's full of our fixes, our repairs, our "make do's." As one little example, let me share a photo of the kitchen "backsplash" that I painted 25 years ago, because we couldn't afford tile: 

I have been so content with this painted backsplash through the years! Ha! It makes me smile.

Our remodeling will begin any day now (we are waiting on blueprints...). I feel like a young child on the verge of a tantrum when I say: I really don't want to think about the innumerable details of this new work! 

But it is work that must be done. 

These structural repairs mean that a lot of the little, personal touches we labored on through the years will vanish. (Yes, the backsplash, too. I know - the time is past due. I hear you.)  This is why I am feeling such a sense of grief - it feels as if we're tossing aside memories, erasing our life.

Breathe in, breathe out.

I am making peace with the reality that the timeline will be long, inconsistent, unpredictable - as is true with most remodeling projects, but especially during this time of pandemic when every contractor is in hot demand and working on several things at once.

Breathe in, breathe out.

I remind myself, it's a good life, right? We are so blessed. Change is always, change is constant, change is needed.  

Of all the unforeseen and unfortunate problems in the world, this is a good problem to have. Quit my bellyaching!

Breathe in, breathe out.

Realizing I am feeling grief, I decided to work my way out of my blues. Action is needed! We "popcorned" ideas about things that need to be done around the house that are NOT this structural issue, that do not require a professional, that we can do ourselves. We came up with quite a list, big and small things. (Think - painting projects, culling belongings/extras, donating furniture and other items we no longer need.) Now, we are chipping away at these - and it feels WONDERFUL. Seriously. It helps to be accomplishing something.

This past week, we repainted four radiators (before the onset of cold weather). Here's a 'before and after':

BEFORE

AFTER - 

(Yes, there is a goof of paint on the tile above the right corner. 

Thank goodness for "Goof Off"!)

It also helps to write poetry - ha! Just yesterday, EthicalELA offered the inspiration to write an "Abecedarian" poem. I thought about our house and its overwhelming but necessary repairs, and an A-Z poem just flowed out of me. I love it when writing just tumbles forth, as if a release valve has been opened. Yes, it was truly a release. 

I guess the truth of it is, remodeling doesn't soothe my soul...I'd rather be writing.

Falling Apart Alphabetically

Absolutely excited to 

begin home improvements, the

contractor was summoned to

develop a plan of action.

Emotionally unprepared I was

for his first question,

Goodness, why is your ceiling sagging?

How is it that we never noticed?

I have asked this many times since.

Jarringly, it is all we see now.

Knowledge is sight, I suppose.

Lamentations aside, we have

mustered courage (though

nerves and tears still rule on many days) and we’re

opening ceilings

paying for blueprints

querying engineers contractors designers websites friends 

rapidly learning about beams and 

structures and foundations.

Things fall apart. Yes, indeed.

Unexpected challenges and loss, it is said, may also reap

very real opportunities, silver linings, transformation -

wisdom I should print on index cards or

xerox and post everywhere, reminding, as we

yearn for this work to be done, it simply

zigs and zags, ebbs and flows, starts and stalls.

___________________

It's Tuesday and I am participating in the

 Slice of Life.  

Thank you, Two Writing Teachers, for nurturing teacher-writers!

Apr18Poetry - Both Sides

I'm trying something new, taking a risk this month - participating in
#VerseLove with Sarah Donovan,
hoping to write poetry every day this April.







Today's challenge is such a hard one! Oh my. The inspiration was Joni Mitchell's song "Both Sides Now" - we were to pick three topics and look at these from two perspectives. I listened to Joni Mitchell's amazing song, and could not get it out of my head. She focuses on clouds, love, and life. Here is my poem...I focus on night, home, and family. Ugh!

Monsters and bogeyman,

Ghosts hiding in the walls,

They’re awake while you sleep,

Don’t disturb them at all.

You stay in your bed

Pull your covers up tight,

Beware of the dark

In the middle of the night.

But now I see so much in dark,

Dreams, ideas, prayers, and books

When I wake in the middle,

It’s time for another look.

No reason to fear this

Instead take paper and pen

Write what I am thinking

Go back to sleep again.

I think and wonder about the night

I probably should know more,

What of stars, moon, owls,

and bats, to name only four?

No clutter and polished wood,

Sheets tightly made on beds

Mom kneels in prayer, curtains drawn

Dad’s working in the shed.

Follow the rules, no protest,

Be sure to do all my chores,

Then find my shoes and jacket,

Leave the cold and head outdoors.

But then I made my own home,

Wanting another way,  

The one rule: no silent treatment

We’ve honored to this day.

Three boys, messy rooms,

We laughed, sometimes we cried

All feelings were welcome

Home was a place we tried.

I think and wonder about home,

the touch of theirs on mine,

What changes might we make,

If we went back in time?

One man and one woman,

Holy marriage is the way,

Children need this structure,

Everyone would say.

Sheltered life limits the view,

Seems to shape children’s minds,

But I don’t think there’s any stop

To curious, over time.

Whether books, study, or travel,

I began to question it,

So many families

That this shell didn’t fit.

Teaching showed me even more,

Each family is unique

Together has so many ways

There is no one technique.

Whatever I think and wonder

About families, is just guess.

Isn’t it an illusion

To think we know what’s best?

Passing through

I am participating in the
 Slice of Life.  
All participants are writing about one moment, one part of their day, 
on Tuesdays.
Thank you, Two Writing Teachers!

I wrote this poem after driving through a section of the city that I don't normally pass through.


Red Light, Full Stop

Red light, full stop,
we're just passing through
making our way to the highway,
home.
Noticing,
the streets are bereft of children
mid-morning on this school day,
but full of adults,
in clusters up and down the block,
seemingly idle,
wandering into the road,
oblivious to crosswalks and walk lights.
A young woman rushes out of a convenience store,
clutching packs of cigarettes,
running through the intersection,
zig-zagging in front of our car and
around oncoming traffic.
So many people milling about,
feels like a road version of pinball, and
deeply sad.
Red light, full stop,
noticing,
so much trash and debris in the street and
along the sidewalks,
metal bars on windows and doors,
tiny stores with unfamiliar names,
broken windows and half curtains in the homes above,
boarded up windows and rolled-down metal doors,
marked with graffiti,
signs of other businesses long gone.
Two disheveled men
pants slung low, jackets frayed, matted hair,
supporting
a wobbly, jellied-leg third man between them,
who looks like he will fall over at any moment.
A low, loud, melodic bass beat pulsates from the car in the lane next to us.
Red light, full stop,
noticing,
a police vehicle with lights blinking,
stopped just ahead on side of road,
no sign of the police themselves...
perhaps inside the pawn shop next door.
A bench at a bus stop,
a woman strewn across a man's lap,
belly fat exposed,
her eyes rolled up in her head;
she has passed out.
His one arm cradles her, supporting her head,
the other pats her, soothingly, tenderly, and
he whispers something we can't hear.
A man approaches our car with a bucket of soap suds,
wanting to wash our windshield;
we know not to meet his eyes.
Red light, full stop
noticing.

Imagine,
people are living this way,
this is their neighborhood,
their home,
all day,
every day.
Everything and everyone seems
so far removed from
hope,
so far removed from
all decisions being made
or any debate being had
by anyone anywhere
with any semblance of power.
This is desolation.
Neglect.
Invisibility.
Unless we happen to search for a shortcut
to the highway
in an unfamiliar part of town,
and are just
passing through.

Green light, go,
move on.