5 p.m. I’m sitting in the new house by myself, enjoying briefly the sweet thought of it being my own. It’s empty except for two camping chairs Skye put in the sunroom. I’m sitting in one of them, with a Corona Light in the drink holder built into the left arm. The floor refinishers have left, after day one of sanding off the caramel-colored patina, and the radon mitigator is here.
The floors smell new and look vintage where the oak boards have settled in and separated slightly. I can’t believe anyone would want to cover them up. It is, as the radon mitigator said, “too good to be true” to have floors that look this good underneath carpet. But we’re refinishing them anyway, because of one room. The floor was painted white and underneath the white paint was carpet glue. I’m not sure what went on there, but the floor guys are like detectives. They are giving me a history on the place just by the clues they’re finding in the floors in each room.
I have gone around to all the quarter rounds, nailed to the trim surrounding the house, with a crowbar and removed them. Judging by the nail lengths, thicknesses and angles in which they were hammered, they seem to have been installed by four different people. They are painted the same color as the trim. I want to replace the painted quarter round with simply stained oak, just like the floor. The way it’s supposed to be. I like how that makes me sound like a floor snob. It’s hawt, I know.
The radon mitigator is drilling a hole in the brick on the North side of this fortress I call the third little pig’s house. He looks like a pig, with the droplets of sweat beading down his forehead and cheeks. It’s really not that hot out.
The house is thick masonry all the way around. I’m saving the brick cutouts he’s making, placing them atop the brick garden wall that circles the North corner of the yard and wraps along the cement patio in back. The boys will enjoy putting them together like a puzzle when they discover the pieces in the vines.
I haven’t decided if the vines in the brick garden box along the back of the house are staying or going because, as yet, we have not been formally introduced. I’m too busy taking in all the other plants and figuring out where to put the most treasured transplants from the old house. For years, I designed and cultivated the garden along the walkway in front of the old house. It has matured into a lovely entrance. In fact, this Spring is its showiest year ever, just in time for the open house, when the red tulips along the front held out for their big moment. I gave them standing ovations repeatedly from the kitchen window.
I make my rounds in the morning light and take pictures of what’s in bloom each week. I don’t want to forget anything about these gardens. Plants that were weak bloomers in the ten Springs we’ve lived here, are successful bouquets this year. Plants that are on their way out, are giving it all they have.
At the new house, the gardens are the previous owner’s taste and stories. A robin’s nest, that contains three beautiful blue eggs, is situated at the top of a wreath, faded and weathered, that I was about to yank off the brick it is nailed into. The seller must have seen that in my eyes when we walked the property together on her last day. She was quick to tell me, when she saw my eyes taking in the wreath’s immense ugliness, that she “didn’t get a chance to change the ribbon.”
Oh, as if that’s all it needed was a little ribbon freshening.
The thought bubble above my head read bonfire! I made no mention of my intention, for fear of hurting her feelings, but did make a mental note to ask Google, when I got back home, if robins needed to return to their nest after they could fly. And if so, for how many months will I have to put up with that wreath? I googled different variations of “robins nest, ugly wreath, and how long”. The answer is forever.
Before closing up the new house and returning to the old, I reached my camera up to the nest and took at least a dozen photos of the eggs, viewed the lot, and took a dozen more because they are so breathtaking. I want to document this symbol of a new beginning with a daily photo.
My beloved hydrangeas are on the list of plants I’d like to bring to the new house but I am afraid they are too far into the season and I would harm them beyond repair if I disturb them this late. I want to place one on each side of the shed, just like I saw in a picture of Kurt Vonnegut, taken on Cape Cod. When the bushes grow large enough, I’ll place a chair between them, just like in the picture. I’ll imagine him sitting out there while I write in the sunroom in the mornings with my coffee.
I plan to post, on the inside of the shed, magazine photos of all my favorite writers. The shed is mine. Girrrlz Only. I have mentally peed all the way around it and no one is allowed to cross the pee line except me…and anyone I want to invite inside my special space — who I will, for obvious reasons, refrain from telling about the invisible pee line they have had the unmentionable honor of crossing. I don’t think they’ll see the awesomeness.
The shed is a one-of-a-kind. It has windows that open, skylights, gutters and electricity. I could put a mini fridge in there and an Indian rug. I could put a bed out there when I needed my own room. John Denver posters on the ceiling. (That was for Lori.) A record player. Maybe one of those sixties wicker womb chairs that hangs from a chain. Maybe running water. And my own phone. It’ll be like having my own apartment!!! I’ll be the envy of housewives every where.
Because you know that’s what brought all this on. I just needed my own room.
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