Dorothy's Secret

 

13 years ago today, I moved in to this house, the house that we built. Something about new always appealed to me and when I found a way, I made it happen (Jeffrey needed a bit more convincing, but I won). I completely see the beauty in old homes; it’s mostly what you'll find in my home town. I just always felt funny living with someone else's memories or toilets, maybe a little bit of both. I grew up in an old house until 4th grade, but it was my grandparents’ house and the one that my father grew up in (pretty safe with both of my issues). In 1971, my parents built a new house, no history and virgin plumbing. In 1986, when I got married, our first home was a brand new condo, with 2 ½ un-spoiled (or did i mean un-soiled?) bathrooms. In 1989, 8-months pregnant with Scott, I bit the bullet and went with pre-owned. Yes, we changed the toilet seats and most other surfaces, but someone else's history and DNA were hiding in the crevices (I’m not usually this Howie Mandel - truth be told, I don't even have a problem with highway restrooms, only in my own house). In 1997, we broke ground on my current address. It took longer than we expected and we spent 4 months and 22 days living with my brother and his family (just 3 doors down from our new foundation). 2 wives, 2 husbands, 6 kids under 9-years old - no animals, and it was great, if you ask me (maybe not so much if you ask the husbands).We moved out September 1st, because I promised we’d be gone by the first day of school and spent the last week squatting at my parents’ house. Finally, on September 8th, 1998, we signed the deed, took the title and crossed the threshold into the house where we would christen all the commodes.

Thirteen years later, at end of a long day or even a night out, my driveway is the gateway to happiness.  I'm not a homebody; home is my refuge, not my hiding place. Every space has its purpose and I instinctively seek out the perfect place to soothe my soul, rest my head or have a laugh. When the sky is dark and clear, I will always head to the front steps for a perfect view of the night sky. From the first few days without my father (not going there yet in this blog), I have always felt closest to him in this very spot. Something about the stars above me; it feels like he can really hear me, and sometimes I am talking out loud (neighbors aren't within earshot).  On a sunny, warm weekend morning, my coffee and newspaper ritual moves to the deck; surrounded by an acre of woods and the birds that frequent Jeffrey's many bird feeders (which are occasionally found mangled on the ground when the bears get hungry - not kidding). There's not much conversation, strange but true, just the sound of the mugs on the glass table and the pages of morning newsprint. On a snowy winter day, even better if it's a "snow day”, I'm in the den with a fire and a movie (otherwise I'm not in there that often). I sit on the hearth ( called it that since I was a kid, when my mother also decided the den was the  "library" )with my back to the fire until I can't take the heat anymore, I return to the sofa and then repeat when I get cold again. If I'm very lucky, and all the boys are home, we play monopoly or start a 1000 piece puzzle. The puzzle remains on the glass card table until it is complete; the kids’ friends come and go all week, stopping to do their part, the biggest controversy is who claims "the last piece" - and it is often a showdown. In the last few years they started to play "dirty" and pocket a random piece to guarantee final placement. We search the floor, blame the dog, accuse the innocent - all the while the offender is equally outraged with the prize safely tucked away waiting for the crowning moment. Andrew mastered the technique in the "Hooray for Hollywood" puzzle, even left the house for a few hours, with a little corner of Elvis Presley in his pocket.

The dining room is probably jealous of the kitchen, the central nervous system of our house. Sadly the farm table that was set every night for 5 is now mostly where the mail gets dumped and the backpacks and coats get left (because why would they leave them in the mudroom where there are hooks?) It feels funny with 3 place settings, even now with Scott's 4th, so I set the island, where it feels less empty. The "tables" get turned for a holiday or family dinner, those nights the dining room is the star and the kitchen is hot and messy (and if it's a big crowd, home to the kids table). My happiest nights are when we can barely navigate around the table, all the leaves are in and a folding table has been added. Nobody can get a word in, (this apple did not fall far from the tree), food disappears quickly, kids up and down, a difference of opinion every now and then, a lot of laughing , a few old stories, some spilled wine, and I wouldn't trade a minute a of it. We already visited the living room in a previous post (Inspiration Point), so no need to go there again. The room at the top of the stairs has an arched window that was originally supposed to be the 2nd story of the foyer, but that wasted space became my office (somehow Jeffrey takes ownership to it as well, but it's really mine). From this vantage point I keep watch on the neighborhood walkers and their dogs, and during the high school years it was an excellent night vision location to monitor the kids coming and going from the basement (this level will not be mentioned today, currently we are not on good terms – see Facebook photos). The kid’s bedrooms reflect their personalities, or have adapted through the years. Bunk beds became twin beds and now they are changing to queens; stuffed animals were given away or stored for the next generation, but the trophies and knick-knacks are still proudly displayed. I'm still unclear when they are supposed to turn into guest rooms (although I have assumed some of their closet space). Right after college seems too soon, but Jeffrey's boyhood room remained as it was in 1978 until the day the moving truck pulled away in the 1990's. So at some point between today and grandchildren I vow to have at least one room with a flowered comforter. At the end of the day (which is about 8 pm during the week) I retreat to my bedroom. This is not bedtime, this is relaxing time. When the boys were little we all watched TV in bed together (King size bed for just that reason), one or two falling asleep in there (all good until they were too heavy to carry back to their own rooms). I think we watched the first 10 seasons of Survivor arm to arm. Now I'm mostly TV watching alone, Jeffrey's in there, but pretending to read or watch TV in his chair, but the snoring is a dead giveaway. Even with his reading glasses and the nook, I am not fooled. When he stirs and protests his slumber, I quiz him about whatever show "we" are watching, annoying I know, but sleeping is sleeping. If the program is more background noise than interesting, it’s blog time or Facebook time, or a combination of the two. I rarely talk on the phone at night, unless David calls, hard to connect otherwise with Arizona time. At 11 the news goes on, Jeffrey finishes “reading”, joins me in bed and assumes control of the remote (hopefully I will be sleeping by the sports segment). “I love you”, and then “I love you more” – Jeffrey, then me, just in case you were wondering.

Today, and all days since moving day, I repeat the words of my favorite movie, “There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.” Dorothy had to click her ruby slippers 3 times; I just pull in the driveway.