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.
