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November 10, 2008
It’s a strange place to be…in our home that we’ve completely transformed over the past 7 years, where our children’s lives began, where our lives have woven into a community, in a home that is ours. But our eyes are set on a tiny wreck of a place where our new neighbors have no connection to us whatsoever except the bricks and mortar that will wall us all in, a place that is not our own, where the pizza man next door has towed our car and will hate us before we even move in and the tenants in the building beside us will be looking down with so much disdain after nearly a year of construction mishaps that have occurred.
As I pack, pitch, polish, and plan, there are so many emotions to sort through. This old house is home, but I’m slowly letting go of it. At night, I’m usually the last one in bed and it’s been my tradition for the past 7 years to stop at the bottom of the stairs and pray, “Lord, please watch over us and our neighborhood, keep us safe and protect us from those who would do harm.” When Miika was tiny, I’d always check in on her to hear her breathing before I went to bed. Now that she’s older I don’t always go in her room, but I do check on Nathan every night, and pray for both of them while I listen to him breathing. Then I crawl into bed and crash. There are so many memories here and such tight friendships. It’s a charming and perfect house that will always contain part of my heart. When we’re on our way home from anywhere and we turn on Cortland, Nathan ALWAYS says, “home” in this long, drawn out fashion, synonymous with “ahhhh.” “That’s right Nathan.” And he says it a few more times as we get closer to Natchez Ave. When we leave, he says, “Bye home.”
Oh, and Miika who cried for hours when I took down her playhouse….I’m a bit concerned about the final good-bye. The good thing about this transition is that it is extremely slow. She’s getting to see her new room being transformed. I’ll be painting it the same color as her old room and we’re planning to put up the playhouse again, like a little time capsule that will contain the old and the new.
A home has a heart of its own, like a spirit, although it’s the soul of those who dwell there who make it breathe. The smell of cookies in the oven, a fire in the fireplace, laundry soap in the basement, a turkey, a ham, even the twang of a fish and broccoli dinner…it’s all familiar to the senses. I love to come downstairs in the morning and smell the coffee. All these things meld together over time and give a certain fragrance that the heart knows, but doesn’t always detect directly. There was a familiar aroma to my grandmother’s house that’s embedded in my memory. It was a cocktail of her perfume Tabu, sugar cookies, baked chicken, brewing coffee, and fresh air. I always smelled it when I walked in her door. Home.
So, I’m drawing out the floor plan, picking paint, deciding what to store and pairing waaaay down. We marked the kitchen walls in the old-new apartment today with where we need the outlets and switches. Our favorite plumber came to help us reconfigure the bathroom and the demolition has begun. The emotional divide between the old home and the new sits where the focus of design, decor, and ideas are directed. This morning, I had a few moments to drink my coffee and look at a magazine in peace and found a story about how the Finns illuminate the dark days of winter…being a Finn, I took notice! Here’s a gem of an idea that I immediately thought I must do outside our new home:
Water is frozen in a bucket with a big can of rocks in the middle to create the opening for the candle…a good use of a cold day!