60: (August 2024)
Moths have invaded our home. Those small, papery beings and their infernal batches of tiny eggs have made drawers of wool socks, chests of wool sweaters, and neatly hung woolen suits their breeding ground. We first began to notice the telltale tiny holes in woolen hats and scarves about six months ago. To my horror, I gradually realized how far the invasion had progressed.
Besides having the requisite woolen clothing items that folks need in order to comfortably live through the cold winters of New England, like many people around here, we are a family of knitters. Many balls of wool live in our house waiting to be knit into just the right thing. My younger daughter spins wool as well, so even though she lives abroad, the spinning wheel awaits her here, which she enjoys using when she comes home for a visit. We do like wool.
The moth invasion gave urgency to my goal of paring down possessions that appear to have swept themselves into many corners of the house over the past 30 years. We’ve reached a tipping point: there are too many things to care for, maintain, and store, and I long for a little freedom from it all. Additionally, the moths have helped me face the fact that material things simply don’t last forever. Left to their own devices in neglected or forgotten parts of this labyrinth of a home, they are apt to degrade in one way or another, subject to the inevitable damaging effects of the passage of time.
So I am on a quest to get rid of things that no longer serve a real purpose in our lives. With moth holes ever-present to strengthen my resolve, I’m taking a sterner approach when I open a bulging closet or delve into the packed attic. I felt victorious when I finally threw away a pair of argyle socks knit by my mother that my father had worn many, many years ago. Nothing will dim my father’s memory, so why hold onto a pair of moth-eaten socks that are more than 50 years old?
Filled with a burgeoning sense of determination, I unearthed the old bassinet which my parents had used for me and my sister and brother from the recesses of the attic. I laughed at myself for holding onto it all these years. After all, I never did use it for either of my children — or any of our grandchildren, who are all too old for it now. Its cardboard interior was cracked in several places, so I wondered if it was even worth bringing to the recycling center’s giveaway section.
Yet a tug on my heart made me pause, despite my desire to discipline it. How many memories were locked into that dilapidated piece of furniture? Did the essence of my siblings still linger there? I found myself splashing sea-green paint onto the bassinet’s wicker exterior to make it look a little more modern in a vintage sort of way. Then I hauled it to the music room, lined it with plastic, set several plants in it, and placed it against a window. Maybe paring down is overrated. Maybe it’s okay that my heart is happier holding on . . . just a little longer.
40: (August 2004)
My house is not that old. At least I thought it was not that old, until it started falling apart. It usually does not fall apart on its own; the forces of nature actively work on it, chipping away, imposing change. Maybe houses are more like we are than I had thought.
Nature dealt its most dramatic hand a few years ago when our barn collapsed under the weight of heavy winter snow. Last year the house got hit by lightning, which destroyed the telephone system. Some months later, the entire electrical system was mortally wounded by water damage coming in through the wall by the main panel, which then had to be relocated. That accomplished, the water-damaged side of the house needed to be rebuilt, but not before a rotting foundation beam was found, necessitating jacking up the house. (The words “jacking up the house” are extremely scary to homeowners.)
Two weeks ago, I walked into the house after being away for a day, to find my home being flooded by water pouring out of the dishwasher, which had been turned on four hours earlier by my house/pet sitter. Apparently, the input valve broke, and the result was the same as if someone was standing in the kitchen holding a gushing hose. After I had figured out how to turn off the water line, it still sounded like a waterfall was somewhere in the house. Upon investigation, I discovered that a hole under my stove was allowing water to flow into the basement, which now looked like a swamp.
Two days later my dishwasher was fixed, and the bulkhead doors to the basement were open in a feeble attempt to dry up some of the water. It was a sunny day, and my friend’s daughter was running through the sprinkler in my backyard when we noticed a big snake slithering down the bulkhead steps. Fifteen minutes later, I tried to shut the sprinkler off, only to discover that the outdoor faucet had decided to break at just that moment, making it impossible to turn off the flow of water. So I had to wade through the ankle-deep water in my four-foot tall basement and hobble to the far end to turn off the outdoor water valve, knowing that at least one snake was keeping me company down there.
My house is only 26 years old. The word lemon comes to mind. Or maybe just a run of bad luck. Or maybe every homeowner goes through this. Nevertheless, my daughters and I orchestrated a getaway last week; we camped out in our forest for six nights. No plumbing (okay, we did use the bathroom), no telephone, no electricity, no problems. Even so, when we moved back into the house, it was nice. Maybe the next time things get out of hand, I will remember to sit down and laugh, because when all is said and done, there’s no place like home.
60-40:
That really was a run of bad luck 20 years ago, because it was the last time I had such an onslaught of household problems. Our home has become a cozy nest. A lived-in space, filled with the odd piece of furniture or two that belonged to both sets of grandparents, a couple of things from the home I grew up in, and furniture that my husband brought with him when he and I merged our households. It doesn’t all match or fit into a particular decorative scheme, but it does hold memories.
Best of all are the roughly 60 potted plants that share our home, the instruments of all sorts, the family photos, and the artwork that my children did over the years, which hangs on various walls throughout our home.
The house and I have weathered some tough times together, and it’s become my sanctuary. My family’s sanctuary. That’s worth holding onto.
60-40 