It was an email from my friend Anna that got my wheels turning.  

“I can’t wait for summer,” she wrote. “I’m dying to get in my car and drive for weeks and weeks, to head down through the south and go all the way west; then north, up the coast. See Monterey, the big Sequoias, on up to Seattle to my dear friends, then east to see Yosemite, Montana, Colorado. Keep going, to see my brother in Minnesota, family in Michigan, on up to Maine. Keep going north to visit where Anne of Green Gables lives. And upon heading south, stop in New York, then in Philly to see some old friends, and then home. Just in time for school to start in September.   

“Your turn. What’s your dream summer?” 

I began—and abandoned—my response several times. What’s your dream summer? Such a simple question, but it caused me to realize it’s something I have trouble imagining at this stage of my life.  

I can look at a strange pairing of words and imagine a story, see a scribbling on paper and see the creature it could become. I can look at ultrasounds and see babies, look at bare walls and see shelving and wainscoting and windows. I can see the forest for the trees, find needles in haystacks, and track down that squirrelly Waldo wherever he hides.  

But a dream summer escapes me.   

Such a thing brings to mind frivolity and spare time. Lots of spare time. We’re not quite halfway through the year and my vacation days are more than half spent. A day here for painting, a day there for moving.   

And then, of course, there’s that whole money thing. Dream summers need funding. My sources of funding have been quite thoroughly tapped.   

Who can fathom what a dream summer might be when they’re surrounded by boxes needing unpacked, walls needing painted, a yard needing tended?   I’ll tell you who: my not-so-little girl.  

“But I want to go to the beach with you,” she said, her warm hand on my arm.   

“And I want to go, too,” I said. “But Grammy and PopPop are going to take you this year.”  

“They took me last year,” she said.   

A different sort of vacation inhibitor had been going on then, that being a diseased gall bladder that had to come out.  

“Can’t we just go for a weekend?” Celeste asked. “We could drive down and right back. Just stay one night.”  

I glanced away, trying to avoid a direct hit from her most practiced sad look.  

“You’re so much fun at the beach,” she said.   

I remembered the last time she and I went to the ocean, how we spent hours digging trenches in the sand that eventually turned into moats for elaborate castles, how we constructed a huge mermaid from an assortment of strange things that had washed up on the shore after a storm.   

She’ll soon be ten. How much longer is she going to want to play in the sand? How much longer is she going to want to go to the beach with her mom instead of one of her friends?   

And just like that, her dream summer has become my dream, too.  

We have a contract. We don’t have a contract. We have a contract. We don’t have a contract.

I feel like I’m pulling petals off a daisy.

Is selling a house this frustrating for everyone? I tell ya, I’m falling apart. I want this behind us. Our house is still up for grabs. We’ve had a lot of interest, and we know it’s priced right. It’s a big house in a great neighborhood and the only thing it really needs is new wallpaper in one bathroom.

If I had time, I’d rip down that wallpaper so no one would ever see the lousy job I did. What happened was I bought paper I found on clearance–bought every roll they had because I’m terrible at measuring and calculating the right amount. The bathroom is divided by a doorway, with the double sink part in one half and the toilet and shower in the other half. I just wanted to paper the sink half, but once I started, it was looking so good–and I had SO much paper (or so I thought)–that I kept right on going with the other half. Except I didn’t have enough paper. And it was on clearance because it wasn’t made anymore.

I’ll just piece it, I thought. It didn’t really have a pattern–looked like spongepainting–so patching wasn’t too hard to do, and at the time, all those patches sort of disappeared into each other. Fast forward ahead about 8 or 9 years and all those patches aren’t so fond of each other anymore. They’ve curled away, fallen off, peeled loose enough to tempt a kid to help them go the rest of the way. Suffice to say, it isn’t pretty. And I hate the idea of anyone seeing that and knowing I was responsible.

If I didn’t have so many other things at the new house demanding my attention, I’d be down stripping paper this weekend.

We had our open house on Sunday and it went fantastic. I was surprised by how many people showed up. Now comes the stressful part. We have FOUR interested parties, but one I’m especially rooting for because they were so enthusiastic about the house. I want someone that’s going to love the place and feels like it’s perfect for them. Yeah, I know. It’s just a house. But I’ve worked so hard on that house and struggled so crazily to stay there when it was just me and Celeste. I really couldn’t afford to live there on just my income, but she’d gone through so much and was terrified of having to move and leave her friends behind, too. Anyway, we made it through those times and now things are great . . . except for the whole two house payment part.

So that’s why my fingers are crossed, hoping we’ll be signing a contract today and that it’ll all go through fast and smooth.

Depending on what time you’re reading your paper, I’m either maniacally preparing for our open house, in the midst of having the open house, or collapsed on the floor in exhaustion, grateful it’s over.

Nothing spells “stress” quite like moving to a new home and preparing for an open house to sell the old one in the very same week, especially when it involves taking no time off from work.

Yet nothing spells “motivation” quite like having to make two mortgage payments a month.

Although I’m extremely excited about our new place, there are so many memories at our old Poca house. I can’t walk through a room without reliving some special time.

For instance, we’re always hearing about people coming out of the closet, but how many people can actually point to the physical closet from which they emerged? I can. Mine is in the spare bedroom where I had my home office. Years back, I had stepped inside this particular closet to retrieve an item that fell to the floor when my daughter, who wasn’t quite 2 at the time, shut the door.

The inside knob didn’t work.

We were home alone with no chance of anyone coming to our rescue until sometime the next day, so for once, my big feet were good for something other than frightening ants. I kicked down the door, frame and all.

Just outside of that room is what we sometimes call Insomnia Hall. It’s where I learned that at 2 a.m., if you can’t tell the difference among ivory, eggshell and off-white, it’s best to wait until daylight to paint rather than trust that your choice truly is “close enough.

Then there’s the master bedroom, which would probably be a square foot or two larger were it not for my many layers of paint. It’s also been papered. (Did you know they still make wallpaper that requires paste? I didn’t. The master bedroom is where I learned that no matter how long you soak that kind of paper, it still won’t stick to the wall.

A walk through the dining room brings to mind The Mysterious Sounds From Above, which turned out to be caused by a squirrel that had accessed our attic.

To rid our attic of the squirrel, I captured the neighborhood cat and put him in the attic, hoping his scent would frighten the squirrel away long enough for me to plug up the hole. It worked. (Except the cat never left.)

A day or two later, our downspout suddenly became clogged. I suspected — but never could prove — that the clogging was the deliberate action of a vengeful, homeless squirrel. The clogged downspout caused rain water to roll back into our house, leaving a small stain on the ceiling.

It’s also how I came to be on the roof, whacking the downspout with a hammer, when the bitter squirrel landed, with a brick-dropping thud, just inches from where I was suspended. As the squirrel hopped, chattered and spat, I lurched, stumbled and considered a coronary reaction.

Ah yes. The memories.

I doubt (even with therapy) that I’ll ever forget my experience in our back yard the first winter we had Murry, our big, tan ball of enthusiasm and dirt. The yard has a slope that levels before angling upward again. A lead-line for our dogs runs up that slope, attached to the house on one end and to a tree up at the edge of the woods on the other.

It was around that tree that Murry happened to tangle himself one cold winter morning, forcing me to climb up the hill in my slippers, pajamas and robe. Upon freeing my pooch, he joyfully popped in the air, knocking me over, sending me shooshing down the hill like a turtle on its back. A combination of muddy slush and ice filled the back of my nightgown, oozed from my shoes, matted my hair.

The joys of being a homeowner.

Now imagine this particular sort of joy being doubled. And that’s why I hope, by the time that you read this — whoever you are — my joy is about to be lessened by half.

A note from my friend Becky, who I’ve written about a few times this  year.  (Here and here.)

 Today was my first MRI since the chemo ended three weeks ago and for now, it looks like I’m cancer free. I’m still weak and so tired, but my doctor says that’s normal and I’ll get stronger in time. I have a fifty percent chance of it returning, and the threat of it is going to shadow my life forever, but at least now I can plan for tomorrow.

I have another scan in a month and then, if it’s still clear, every three months for two years. It’s been a horrendous diagnosis and journey back. I want to thank everyone who sent me good wishes and prayers. It worked! You’ve touched me so deeply with your caring. I was truly afraid I’d never get the chance to finish my book. Now I have a new story to write. I’m a CNS (central nervous system) lymphoma survivor.

In January my chance of making it with chemo was fifty percent, and without chemo, zero percent. It’s a miracle. The way I look at life has been changed forever.

I’ve had a long day and I need to go, but I just wanted to share my relief.

Love,

Becky

Last night, we were showing our house to a nicely-dressed, attractive young couple. Celeste was quietly tagging along as I took them on a tour through the house. When we got to my bedroom, she dramatically threw herself in front of the closet doors and said, “You don’t want to look in there!”
The husband laughed and said, “Why? Is it a mess?”
Very seriously, and in a low, conspiratorial voice, Celeste said, “No. But her clothes are so ugly they’ll hurt your eyes.”

The past few weeks have gone by in a blur. So much going on. To be honest, I’m exhausted. Every joint in my body feels like it’s on fire, but it’s nothing a night or two of good sleep won’t fix. 

Remember the people who had a contract on our house, then backed out and wanted their deposit returned? Well, they filed suit against us to get it back (although by then I’d already signed a paper so it could be released–I’d been told we couldn’t legally sell our house to someone else until this was resolved, which meant continuing to make house payments until then.) Anyway, I got a letter in the mail from Judge Marilyn Milian of the People’s Court inviting us to settle our case on the show. It would’ve been fun to experience something like that just to see how it works, but darn. It’s already behind us. I guess I’ll have to find another way to make a fool of myself in front of millions.

“How do you spell ‘Tempurpedic’?” my nine-year-old daughter called from the living room.

“Tempurpedic? Like your pillow?” I yelled from the next room.

“Yeah.”

“I think it’s T-e-m-p-u-r-p-e-d-i-c.” I said. “What’s this for? I thought you were doing homework.”

“I sort of am,” she said.

Curious, I peeked in the room. She was spread out at the coffee table, books here and there. Her silver pup using her backpack as a pillow.

Spotting me, she quickly folded herself over her paper, protectively hiding the words. (Like I could make them out anyway. Lately, words are becoming readable only after being moved closer, then further away, then closer again.)

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