BECOMING HOME

Yeah, I know it’s been a while since I’ve posted anything here. But, listen, as my last post stated we have been moving. And now, we’re here in Charleston, South Carolina and our move is complete. I’m joking, of course. Moving is an extended process involving a succession of tasks, not a discrete event. Downsizing has meant countless trips to Goodwill and the Salvation Army to unburden ourselves from the “stuff” we have collected. But beyond this, there were the larger items that could not be crammed into Hefty bags or manageable boxes that fit in the car. So, we hired a junk hauling service that promised to route stuff to organizations that might need it; a junk hauler with a conscience to take away the jumbo dresser that had belonged to my parents along with the uncomfortably hard king-sized mattress and box spring we slept on for just a few years. The junk haulers- a surprisingly old couple that looked physically unfit to move anything at all, showed on the same day as the movers, a brawny collection of men and women who strapped two boxes medium sized boxes to their backs and descended the three-story staircase with enviable ease. The old couple managed to get the dresser down three flights of stairs scaping and gouging the stairwell walls of the 150-year-old house as they proceeded. When it seemed to me, they were taking an inordinately long time, I went to check on them. They were resting; he on the stairs with his hands on his knees and she leaning wearily against the wall in the master bedroom.

“You guys, Okay?” I asked genuinely concerned for them and the damage they were doing to the wall of the house we had now sold.

“I gotta rest since two thirds of a lung was removed last year.” He paused to catch his breath. “They said I died twice right there on the operating room table, but I’m Ok”, he explained, panting.

“Are you sure?” I asked unconvinced.

“Oh yeah”, he answered. Then, he grunted as he stood and summoned his vastly overweight and elderly female moving partner and they went to get the mattress on the third floor. It was a bit of a Keystone Cops show as the mattress escaped their grip multiple times and skid like a sled down sections of the long stairwell. Honestly, I was glad to see them succeed in getting the items onto their trailer and leave…still alive… in spite of the hours of spackling and painting their help had cost beyond their fee.

Turns out, for all our efforts to be rid of non-essentials to fit comfortably into a considerably smaller new house, it wasn’t enough. Now in our new home, we called the Charleston chapter of Habitat for Humanity to pick up pieces of furniture I was reluctant to give up in St. Louis. And still more trips to Goodwill. There are several large dumpsters in the three lots adjacent to our home where new homes are in various stages of development. Construction crews work tirelessly and are a wonder to watch as they noticeably progress each day. The pressure to complete one task so the contractor charged with completing the next task can begin as scheduled shows in the late nights they work. Already sold, the owners are anxious to occupy their new homes with docks that extend hundreds of feet beyond the river grass onto the Wando River. It’s all very lovely…Oh yes… it was the dumpsters I was speaking about. The dumpsters are convenient for unloading giant bags of our unwanted items after dark. I feel a tad guilty but justify it as a tradeoff for the inconvenience of bearing the noise of nail guns and mariachi music blaring from boomboxes throughout the week.

We have fit, more or less into the new house with some compromises. The third bedroom we have branded a craft room, furnished with an antique farmhouse kitchen table and hutch with wavy glass we bought at auction in North Carolina. I couldn’t bear to part with so it was re-purposed. Instead of dishes, it now holds puzzles, beads, and books. Of course, it’s silly!

But I have come to understand what we are doing is attempting to bring this house to life; to create something that moves beyond the sum of its physical components to reflect who we are- our values, our history, and what we cherish. The art has been hung, the photos of loved ones placed, the familiar furnishings situated ‘just so’, all of which serves to soothe both the soul and nerves jangled by being uprooted in one area and transplanted to foreign soil. To illustrate the jangled nerves, let me explain that I have become acutely aware that there are more house flies here than St. Louis. I know, South Carolina is famous for some of its bugs like the Palmetto bug, a giant flying cockroach, fondly referred to as the State bird. I know about these critters but haven’t encountered them. But what’s with the flies? I bought something called the EXECUTIONER on Amazon after I read about it in the NY Times Wirecutter feature. It looks like a badminton racket with which you swat flies, it has a small static electricity charge powered by two small batteries. If you are skilled enough to actually swat a fly it makes a satisfying spark and crackle and the fly is no more. It is a Sisyphean task that offers a sliver of satisfaction in my effort to claim the house as my own. I imagine the flies conversing with one another: “Look out! Here comes that f—ing maniac with the badminton racket!”

We have moved into a brand-new home; something neither of us has done before. A home that has never been lived in has to be brought to life. It has no story, no history. It is little more than a receptacle designed to accommodate most anyone. Everything is painted in neutral colors designed not to offend and there is a sterility to it all that is both pleasing and disquieting. It is unanimated… it is without life. To make this our home and bring it to life, I have met with those who do window coverings, landscapers, cabinet makers, floor covering experts. All have ideas about how they can help you breathe life into your new home; they will help you brand it with a look that says “farmhouse” or “coastal”. And because the anxiety of feeling unsettled and identity less longs to be assuaged, I found myself inclined to defer to their guidance. I had people talk to me about an integrated design that featured things that smacked of Martha Stewart, Chip and Joanna Gaines, or Southern Living Magazine. Sure, these are all nice but not who we are.

I have now sent the designers away and we are creating what is often euphemistically and apologetically described as an eclectic look. It means simply that we will fill our house with that which we love. The art we have collected over the years is eclectic and has never been chosen to complement the couch or the carpet. It is always chosen because it elicits something that integrates stylistically by accident, if at all.  Instead, it possesses the power to move us in some poorly understood manner. For example, I have become quite smitten by light fixtures from the 1920’s and ‘30’s. Curiously, Art Deco design I have never liked but seems to bring soul to a newly hatched house. French and German art deco lighting is replacing our generic over the kitchen island counter and dining room light fixtures. They are old and boldly colored and at odds with what, perhaps, the house was supposed to say. Built in bookcases to flank the fireplace are nothing new but the wallpaper designs covering the back of the built-ins will be jarring but different…that is to say “ours”. Our tiny backyard we have fenced for the protection of our dogs, will be ours as we think through how water will be at its center, surrounded by trellises filled with vines, and little gravel paths emanating from the central water fountain/feature/pond. What integrates the vastly different styles is how we feel about them- what we surround ourselves with are those things that we love. And yes, the stuff that we love is greater than the space available to contain it, so once again…in time…there will have to be a culling of what we have collected. Even so, the comings and goings of the things we love lend to the creation of a place’s identity. These elements will all comprise the content of this new chapter of the history of our lives.

As I walk up and down our street, I can’t help but recall Tim Burton’s vision of suburbia in Edward Scissorhands. Everything the same, everything neat, everything well-groomed and tidy and uniform. It is fun to watch as different families breathe life into their homes. Gardens are changing from the formulaic to reflect the passion of the owner. In some backyards digging equipment is busy tearing up someone else’s design to install something that reflects the character of the owner. The fronts of most homes are mostly untouched. The HOA, of course, is ever-present and determined to constrain the impulse to individualized expression, but our interiors are rapidly evolving, and the tidal river Wando, after which our community is named, runs along side us. The tides constantly change the surrounding lowland. Grasslands change daily from marshes, to long winding water paths inhabited by alligators making their way to the river as the river makes its way to the ocean.

It is an interesting “project” at this late time in my life. Indeed, such homes were really not intended to become projects, but move-in ready comfortable abodes that asked very little of you. There are some retired couples that seem to be using them as such. That just won’t work for us. The house needs a soul and I need it to have one as much as it needs to possess one.

So, we have shed much to accommodate the demands of this move. And, to settle, we will create something unique and new…a work of art, if only in our eyes, that reflects the relationship between who we are and where we live.