Sunday, July 23, 2023

I'm not Chip or Jo: A Look at Remodeling

 


The fixer-upper type shows make it look so enjoyable,
The sledgehammer plunges through the drywall,
The kitchen counters are torn out,
The wires and studs are exposed,
The endless possibilities of the undone . . . .

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

This will disappoint some of you, but Chip and Jo will never touch my walls.

They live 2-3 miles away from me, but even if they chose me for their show, I would say no.
I am tired of remodeling.

Honestly, my current house project is my second true literal remodeling.
Items from one room fill the spaces in four rooms.
Then, items from that one room are put in place while another room is emptied out.
The crew of guys work in a coordinated dance, in synchronized movements,
Ripping the paneling from the glue,
Gathering and tossing the insulation fragile from the years,
Tugging the carpet from its stapled moorings,
Snaking electrical wire between studs.

Drywall dust coats all.
White dogprints on a red rug are a testament of the sweat and effort in the next room.

Remodeling exposes secrets—-
Holes in the window sealing,
Fire hazards,
An old wooden door secreted behind drywall and brick
(Hey, Poe, was my room your inspiration for “The Cask of Amontillado”?),
Broken tiles, remnants of termite tunnels, and a
Brick wall marred with S’s drawn in glue.
Electrical nightmares.
Chaos.

Despite this, as each day proceeds,
Little tendrils of light and new life arise,
Clean and white, transitions made smooth,
Gaps closed up, keeping out the bugs that contaminate,
Shiny plugs appear where extension cords once crept,
Dangers lessened,
Clean, whole, healed.
A new perspective, a new plan, a new map . . . .

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I am tired of remodeling.
But actually it is not the literal remodeling that has created this fatigue.
Literal remodeling is much quicker and less exhausting in comparison.

I am tired of figurative remodeling, the type that has exhausted me for the past 20 years,
The type that has happened again and again and again.
Just when I had things all put back in place, the dust swept, and the “ahh” released from my lips,
A marriage was ripped apart, a reputation was sullied, a parent died, a job was lost, a child made choices, a life/death health scare happened, a spouse died,
And everything had to be remodeled again.  And again.  And again.

I am sick of life’s sledgehammers that have crashed through established routines,
That have crashed through assumptions and anchored beliefs,
Suddenly, without warning,
The surface of life was torn from its moorings,
The sources of energy ripped out,
The damage,
The footprint signs of a former life,
The chaos.

Those previously-held established routines and assumptions were comfortable, even if not safe.
They provided simplicity of faith—of God, of others, of family, of self.

Each time my life has undergone remodeling,
My reserve, my outward organized persona has been torn and removed.
What may have been a flawed status quo is now smashed and stripped,
The reality beneath is revealed for all and is judged.
The flaws, the possible danger potential, the gaps
Are there for all to see.
The certainties of life are ripped away,
And all that is left are studs and worn-out wires.

It takes time to rebuild.
It takes time to see potential in the wreckage.

The reality of the damage is all too real.
Just because sledgehammers tore out a hole in one section
does not mean the rest is not affected in some way.
Dust covers all.
Furniture from one is crammed into others.
The sledgehammers left nothing untouched.
Decisions must be made.
Changes are a must.
Every item is re-examined before it is replaced.


When life changes in a moment’s time,
Despite the remains of dust, ashes, and fragments,
I have to believe that there is hope.
No timeline completion yet, but it is coming.
This does not mean that the tears do not wet my pillows at night.
It does not mean that sobs do not escape my lips when a song or a TV show or a restaurant or an item at home brings back memories.
Desperation still suddenly grabs me and isolates me.

However, with time, and a whole lot of effort,
I believe (and hope)
I can pull out my hammers and screwdrivers,
Pile up all my construction materials,
And board by board, brush stroke by brush stroke,
The source of energy can be restored,
The broken holes and gaps can be filled,
The dust of my former life can be swept up and rubbed off,
And all that will remain is my new remodeled life.




Thursday, July 6, 2023

"It is Good."

 

I was four or five when my family moved out to Carriage Lane, to the country, or the boonies, as we called it.  

The house was placed on 1.65 acres of Florida pine-laden, sandy soil, with an expanse of land for a front yard.

I saw bare land.
My parents saw their dream.

With hundreds of tiny sprigs of St. Augustine grass, our family kneeled in the sand,
dug holes, buried the runners,
standing with a hose spraying well water,
urging the runners to sprint.

Between Florida sun, daily summer rains, and the regular back and forth spread of nitrogen, phosphorus, and potassium, the grass grew and grew.

From that bare plot eventually grew a miniature Garden of Eden, full of chest-high azaleas, shoulder-high camelias covered in pink blooms, dogwoods, oaks, and roses.

I’m not sure, but it seems like I couldn’t even see over the handle of the red Toro push mower the first time I was given the privilege of being like Daddy and
pushing the vibrating beast over ankle-high St. Augustine,
learning to create squares,
seeing the line between the cut and uncut,
adjusting the mower to get a full cut with the right wheel just over the edge,
turning 90 degree angles again and again until there was only one swath left.

Every week without fail, the whole family converged on the yard—pulling weeds, raking pine needles into piles to create our large driveway, trimming bushes, and most importantly, mowing.

How I loved the rumble
And the clean lines that defined that job.
The power,
The clarity of the work,
—and  don’t forget the sweat—
But all was worth it when it was complete.

Here I am, maybe 48 years after my first mow behind that red Toro.

As I pull the handle on my red and black Honda,
I still see the yellow wooden toy block my parents drilled and used as a handle on the Toro when the plastic handle broke.
I still hear Dad’s voice, “See the line, Kim?”
I still feel the cleanness of my edges along the sidewalk, the curb, the plant beds.
I still turn my 90 degree angles,
I sweat and sweat and sweat,
But the sense of accomplishment and joy is there—

As I look over my back and front yard,
I also imagine I feel a bit what Mom and Dad did on Carriage Lane,
Perhaps a bit what God did on Day 7:

“It is good.”