We're Not Building A Piano

You may have noticed I’ve not posted an update about the mudroom renovation, resplendent with discouraging “before” and radiant “after” photos even “This Old House” would envy. Were Scott Omelianuk and his team of handy DIYers looking through the single-pane windows trimmed enchantingly with uneven dried-out dirty tan blobs of Great Stuff spray foam insulation that pre-date the Regan administration, their expressions would reflect a masterful blend of pity and disbelief. I wish they were looking through the windows; I could offer them sandwiches in exchange for an hour or two of labor (hey, I make a mean tuna salad. Ask to see the before and after pictures of that, why don’t you?).

Back in March, our spirits and courage in high gear, Patrick and I knew we could bang out the demolition and drywall phases of this project, meet some friends for lunch an hour away by the end of the week, and return to our respective workplaces with accomplishment oozing from our pores. Let other fools hire out such a job; we’ve got sturdy work boots and hours of YouTube “Instructable” videos to coach us through to completion.

But something happened on the way to renovation paradise, and here we are, still limping along, one of us literally, and I just put on the first coat of drywall primer. It’s May 19th, by the way. We struck our first blow to the old drywall on March 23rd. I’ll wait while you do the math…

Demolition was easy, and rather fun, since we weren’t going to get into trouble for ripping off old brown paneling sections and punching holes in the textured drywall ceiling like spoiled rock stars in a cheap hotel room. We flung the ragged sections out the back door with gleeful abandon unbefitting two middle-aged lovebirds, and tamed the pile of debris into those tough contractor trash bags (we bought two 40-count boxes, and just opened the second one last week). When I found a perfectly mummified rat behind the old insulation above one of the windows, I knew it was break time. We stood back and surveyed the small area with satisfaction, and took ourselves out to dinner. Day one was in the books (you should know that we broke our record for the most trash bags piled up at the curb, and left three gift cards in a Zip-loc baggie dangling from the handle of our green trash bin for the patient garbage collector. He would earn his paycheck and more when he arrived the next day to do his job).

We hummed our way, more or less, through the fun of cutting large pink fluffy and itchy sections of batt insulation, gently pushing it into the uneven spaces between the wall studs, and hoisting it overhead into the gaps between ceiling beams, stapling the paper edges to the 100+ year-old wood. It was at this point that we felt the first twinges of unmet expectations nibbling at our project enthusiasm. But the weather was kind—sunny and warm enough to move the drywall cutting phase outside. And our marriage was still intact.

What tested our patience (with the project and each other, at times) was this drywall phase, with its finer work of measuring (twice) and cutting (once) the drywall sections, mudding and taping into the corners of a room that I don’t think was ever built square, and using what felt like a chef’s canvas-rolled collection of specialty knives to apply and “feather” the joint compound not just once, but four or six times (when we were buying the supplies we needed, I wondered why there were only two bucket sizes of compound available—the “quick patch” size, and the 50-gallon drum. Surely it was more than we’d ever use, but how would I sell what was left on Facebook?). I got stuck on the word “feather”, because it sounded so soft and pleasant and light. It’s none of that, and quite the trick, applying pressure on the knife blade at just the right angle to smooth the outer edges of the mud beyond the ever-so-slightly thicker seamlines where one piece of drywall met another (my favorite part remains the “letting it dry” part). With great humility, I state freely that I have still not mastered this. Thank God for the sanding step, which I have mastered.

Patrick has the mind of an engineer, and can logically work his way through learning any new skill. But he’s also cursed with the desire to do something new perfectly the first time, and his own worst and harshest critic when “perfect” is nowhere near the outcome staring back at him. With this renovation, I tended more toward the “good is good enough” vibe, and glazed over the rough edges of where we were clearly going to fall short. It was this contrast in opinions and approaches that shut us both down on getting the mudroom done sooner. Days became weeks, and we turned our attention to any other task but this one—cleaning out the fridge, cutting the grass, taking longer to sweep off the front porch than was necessary, binge-watching “Corner Gas” on Amazon Prime Video. Until one night, I just snapped. Most of what we stored in the old version of the mudroom was now packed and stacked in the once-clean and bright living room, waiting to be repatriated and organized. I couldn’t live in what felt like a storage unit with houseplants for the unforeseeable future anymore. We needed to push past this impasse in our perspectives and find a reasonable path forward.

I remembered two bits of wisdom that Patrick had often spoken aloud when bravely coaching himself through other project setbacks: “ ‘Perfection’ is the enemy of ‘good enough’ “, and “We aren’t building a piano”. It was a risk, tossing these back at him as a way to put an end to our inertia. Thankfully, our marriage has tolerated and survived much greater challenges, and he received his own wise counsel with patience and grace. We bought a can of drywall primer and a couple of wrong-sized paint pan liners. Some dear friends and fellow DIYers offered gentle advice about wiping the patches of joint compound with a damp cloth instead of dry sanding, and a door to project traction was kicked open.

Now, as I write this and the primer is drying, I can see in my mind’s eye the finished pale blue walls of what will be the new and improved mudroom, with rolling metal shelving and plastic totes with snap on lids keeping our craft supplies and sweat towels neatly stored and easy to find. If I don’t look too closely, I won’t see the places where the drywall seams didn’t butt together squarely, and the ceiling near the door to the crawlspace is off by a couple of inches. I’ll see only a better view through the single-paned windows where the sunlight can now pour through on the room that made us just a little smarter, and a lot more humble.

Scott Omelianuk, if you’re reading, you’re welcome to come take a look. After all, I do make a pretty mean tuna sandwich.

A Place to Sit

It’s happened more than once.

This morning, I woke up again to the stunning sight of the eastern field thickly strewn with thousands of gossamer hammock-looking spiderwebs suspended from the dried-out stalks of last year’s ironweed, and woven with a silken morning mist, tinged pink from the rising sun. And again, the sight made me go all quiet and humble, wondering what else I could possibly want in this moment.

There’s nothing, except…I wish I could count each and every one of those webs, not for the satisfaction of a definitive number, but for the experience of walking among them and letting that be my day’s work. I know without a doubt that after about the twenty-seventh web tallied, I’d find my attention pulled toward whatever it was that moved in the short grass just a few feet from my feet, and the ratchety-sounding call of a hidden ring-necked pheasant would send my eyes darting back and forth across the field in an attempt to find out where it is nesting. The pheasant remains hidden, and I walk slowly back to the house, where a less fairy-tale project awaits.

Every spring, I make plans to have one day on the land where I just sit and observe and become part of the landscape that surrounds our daily comings and goings, and I imagine this day down to the contents of the lunch I will pack and where I will sit. The options are magically unreal: a spot on the western bank of the creek, well into the woods beyond the open meadow, where thick and twisting grapevines hang from a patient black walnut tree with its deeply-grooved bark, and the creekbank itself is sandy and warm in the dappled sunlight. In the fullness of summer, this spot is our own little Hanging Gardens of Babylon (Hanging Gardens of Homer?) where I can peer through the curtains of vines as the water gurgles and babbles over the smooth rocks just below the surface. If a deer happens to stroll by browsing among the sweetgrass, I practice the sport of extreme stillness.

Then there’s the black swamp woods to the north, where there are ample tree stumps perfect for sitting and contemplating the universe, and shallow depressions filled with inky water. In the canopy overhead, woodpeckers flit from one branch to another, and a singular mockingbird runs through its repertoire at least twice, repeating his blue jay imitation simply because it’s spectacularly spot on. If I landed here for my daylong retreat, my neck would hurt for looking up too long and I’d probably forget to eat the turkey and cheese wrap I brought with me. Such a place is totally worth the 11-acre walk required to arrive at its muscle-wood tree-framed gates.

I’ve also imagined how neat it would be to have benches built onto the sides of the bridge that grants us passage into the peopled world, where we punch our timecards each week and collect a living wage. From these benches, we could soak up the view into the creek as it winds past towering sycamores that know more than I ever will, and random stands of wild purple phlox that watch carefully as schools of minnows tease the water’s surface with their little shiny backs. The sound of the water is more concentrated here, echoing off of the metal I-beams we trust to hold the weight of our trucks, as it drifts upward and into our ears, which are hungry for something more soothing than the rumbling hum of weekday commuters on the two-lane highway just a mile past the tree line to the west. If such benches existed, I’d sit there and lose track of time more than once, I promise you.

So far, all of these places are outside the walls of our humble 1914 farmhouse. But in the downstairs guestroom is a sturdy mahogany platform rocking chair that Patrick scored from a Columbus thrift store for just $5, and I could easily see myself parked and rhythmically gliding back and forth with a book by the late Barbara Holland or the still-living Michael Perry in my hands, and a contented kitten sleeping in my lap, a cup of steaming amber-colored rooibos or dragonwell tea near my right hand. Even though my springtime goal is to be part of All Things Outside, I can also appreciate the peace that comes from settling into a well-lit room like this as a southern breeze pushes the sheer curtains gently forward over the low mosaic coffee table just below the windowsill. The chair sits just to the west of that open window, so the breeze doesn’t blow the pages of my book to the next chapter. From this gentle self-care command post, I can let go of yesterday’s lingering anxiety about the VISA bill, and set aside the useless ruminations about my current aging process. In this rocking chair, the worries of my heart dissolve into nothing. And because it’s fun to do so, I close my eyes and imagine myself small enough to stretch out in one of those hammock-looking spider webs in the eastern field, cradled rather than trapped, and swinging quietly in the slightest breeze, nowhere to go, and not a single request made of my time or my intellect.

We all need somewhere to sit, to rest our bones and our ever-employed muscles and tendons, and float above the perpetual agendas of our lives. Time spent suspended between the past we cannot change and the future that may never come (no matter how anxiously we call it down upon our heads) is deliciously necessary for strengthening the resilience of our souls. No matter where we choose to park ourselves, it requires some travel to get there, and stillness when we arrive.

A cup of tea, and a kitten in the lap are optional, of course, but I highly recommend them.

Things My Mom Taught Me

Bumper joined the family last Monday, after a rough start to his little kitten life. At four weeks old, he was thrown from a moving car, hit the asphalt, and degloved the lower half of his mouth. Patrick’s kind and quick-thinking coworker scooped him up, took him to the vet, and sent photos to a few folks. Patrick texted those to me with “Do you want a new kitty?”, and now Bumper sleeps safely in a too-large animal taxi at the foot of the bed in the guestroom. He happily takes antibiotics twice a day, licking the business end of the syringe like it’s ice cream (some kitten version of it). I can hold him in one hand and still carry eggs from the coop in the other.

I’ve never had children. Lots of reasons, not the least of which is the absence of a deep-rooted calling or desire to fill those important shoes. Without that, it feels like an experiment that could go bad, and then what—give the little one back to the hospital? No. I bequeath the responsibility of raising young humans to those who have dreamt of it since their doll-playing days. I’ll aunt their offspring with great joy, babysit for free, and follow the rules called out as the parents head out the door on a much-needed date night. So far, that’s been appreciated and enough.

My own mom was a font of wisdom and instructions that I eagerly soaked up as each life event and circumstance presented itself, until I skidded into adolescence and figured I knew pretty much all I needed to know. She still taught me, but I spent the better part of nine years as the reluctant student in the back row of the classroom, doodling in the margins of my life’s notebook, and looking up only when called upon. Mom was a teacher in the formal sense as well, and knew how to handle such impertinence. She raised five young humans through the hilly landscape of infancy-to-adolescence and beyond, letting go when it was necessary, and holding on with a love that still teaches me. She died in 2015, surrounded by a context of details too complex and painful to go into here. It’s enough to say that when my time comes, I look forward to connecting with her again, to fill in the gaps and answer those questions that any loss leaves behind in its wake.

Taking care of a discarded kitten feels a poor comparison to parenting, and so I proceed cautiously in front of any of you who have set your shoulders and hearts squarely to that task. But right now, it’s as close as I’ll ever come. When he’s awake and bumbling around the vast living room space, looking like an animated exclamation point on the end of a perpetual energetic sentence, I laugh effortlessly and feel pieces of my heart slip away. When I’m at work and there’s a pause in the action, I wish I was home holding him as he plays with my dangling fingers. In a week’s time, I’ve grown solicitous and overprotective; I get up to check on him during the night, even when he’s not mewling for food or company. The house has gone a bit more dusty, and I glaze over the piles of projects that, two weeks ago, were at the top of my to-do list. It’s far more necessary to put in his eye drop medication, refill his water dish, and let him explore the kitchen. Or just sit on the old red wide-armed chair in the corner with him in my lap, or purring into my shoulder. As I write this, he’s stretched out, all eight inches of him, next to my leg, sleeping.

Though we didn’t have pets growing up (both mom AND dad insisted the house was full enough already, with five of us bumbling around and climbing everywhere), when we did bring home the baby bird or injured bunny, mom guided us through what to do next, teaching us the care continuum that started with a cardboard box filled with grass clippings and eventually led to the inevitable release back into the wild, or, sometimes, how deep to dig the grave and lay one of God’s creatures to rest. We trusted her, and she didn’t disappoint.

In 2015, as it became clear that mom was dying, I started writing a stream-of-consciousness list of what I learned from her, how her influence shaped the person I continue to become. I formatted it into a booklet and placed copies around the funeral home for folks to page through as they stood in line waiting to comfort us and express their sympathy. I haven’t looked at it in a while, found it in the upstairs office/guestroom, and want to share it with you. If it sparks memories of your own mother’s lessons, tucked safely away in your life’s toolkit, I’m glad. What mom knew and taught me has remained part of my daily routine. She was a woman of quiet power and prayer, an embodiment of hospitality and forgiveness, and the reason music is such a source of joy for me. I still fold towels and make no-bake oatmeal cookies the way she did, and hum Gershwin tunes unprompted.

Here’s some of what I know, some of what I am, because of her:

—How to sew on a button, fix a hem, use a sewing machine

—How to make “Sunday chicken”

—How to fold towels, socks, underwear, t-shirts, pants, shorts, and sheets. Even the fitted ones

—How to dust and sweep

—How to play Bingo, Crazy Eights, King’s Corners, Gin, Go Fish

—How to read

—How to sing

—How to put on a life jacket, and why

—How to trim my fingernails

—How to forgive

—How to pack a boat for a 2-week vacation at the lake

—How to say “please” and “thank you”, and “you’re welcome”

—How to dress for special occasions

—All about Rogers and Hammerstein musicals

—How to put together a creative Halloween costume

—How to fill out a check

—How to make tuna salad

—What a G clef and an F clef look like

—The difference between pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters

—How to use glue

—How to address an envelope

—How to write a thank you note

—How to tell someone who’s lost a loved one that you’re sorry for her loss

—How to care for houseplants

—How to load the dishwasher

—Basic math

—That it’s ok to cry at movies

—How to get through the gross or scary parts of movies, like the chariot races in Ben-Hur

—How to slam open a can of Pillsbury crescent rolls on the edge of the kitchen counter

—That saying “shut up” is as bad as dropping the F-bomb

—How to work a crossword puzzle

—Why soaking dirty dishes matters

—How to put a wet bathing suit back on after going to the restroom at the Northland Swim Club when you’re five years old

—How to imitate a cardinal

—How to make Jell-O Jigglers

—That dark chocolate is the best

—What to do when an ambulance comes to your neighbor’s house

—How to make the bed

—Why to make the bed

—How to measure and pack brown sugar for cookies

—How to make a phone call

—How to use and carry scissors

—How and what to pack in the “go bag” that sits at your feet in the car on a long road trip

—That people can change their minds. More than once

Meister Eckhart, 13th century mystic, once said “If the only prayer you say in your entire life is ‘thank you’, that would suffice”.

Thanks, Mom.

Wake Up Laughing. That's Step One.

It’s late afternoon, around 4:15, and my prism rainbow-colored canvas tennis shoes are making these farting noises as I walk from my office down the hallway past the IT department’s offices and the kitchen to the copy room. I work in a healthcare setting, so the sound isn’t startling to my colleagues, but clearly, it’s time to stop wearing socks and switch to a quieter shoe. After six and a half hours, and multiple laps around the office, my feet become “dewey” in my socks and rub rhythmically—and audibly—against the insides of my shoes. The increasingly warmer weather is affecting the very footgear I wear. Switching over to socks-free sandals by May, I should be able to sneak up on my coworkers like a ninja. But for now, I announce my arrival to every occupied cubicle. There’s nowhere to hide, and trying to tiptoe is an impossible posture to maintain for very long. Someone snickers (wasn’t it George Carlin who said that suppressed laughter is the best?), and I try slowing my walk to a slightly labyrinth-like meditative pace and rehearse my explanation in case my boss comes around the corner in her always-dignified quiet heels.

I realize some of you are still stuck at the word “farting”. I’ll wait.

I come by my love of physical humor honestly and perhaps genetically. Dad would laugh himself to tears at those precious M*A*S*H episodes where Colonel Blake was chasing a stray dog (that bit Radar and was thought to be rabid) around the mess tent, his huge floppy feet splayed left and right, cigar tucked firmly between his teeth, or when all of the officers had to cram into one tent to conserve heat during a blizzard, and Trapper John discovered that Frank was wearing battery-operated hunting socks, which led to a fraternity-style ruckus to try and remove them from Frank’s feet as he swung in a hammock above Hawkeye’s cot. Even as dementia stole what remained of Dad’s mind, he could still let loose with that wonderfully cheerful chortle that seemed to echo and return before finally settling into a broad smile on his face. I regret not recording it at one of my many after-work visits with him. I’d have used it as my phone’s ringtone and kept the ringer turned on permanently.

Finding one’s humor tribe is a noble pursuit in life. Not everyone has the same funny bone triggers, and speaking only for myself, it’s been a trial-and-error journey with more than a few humbling red-faced moments. As a child, I managed to drop a few bon mots into the adults’ conversations without really meaning to, and grinned somewhat uncertainly at what I’d done, wondering how I might repeat myself and obtain the same results (few things send a child’s self-esteem soaring than the delighted laughter of adults whose opinions matter to said child more than they will ever fully grasp). I continued to grow up in a circle of folks for whom jokes and laughter and silliness were not merely an undercurrent, but a primary influence of our character development; making people laugh was a great way to start a friendship. Mom and Dad were both quick-witted, and saturated us with their ability to find something humorous in just about every situation. Certain TV shows helped hone our vocabulary and timing—Carol Burnett, The Dick Van Dyke Show, The Smothers Brothers, Bob Newhart, Mary Tyler Moore—until we were introduced to the granddaddy of them all, M*A*S*H, and carry that brand of humor with us to this day.

As much as I portray our land and home as idyllic and retreat center-peaceful, there’s plenty to laugh at here, and I don’t know that I expected that benefit when we arrived. In the physical humor genre, chickens are masters at the glance, the Monty Python-esque silly walk, and a broad range of vocables to round out the show. Letting them out of their coop in the morning, I start my day laughing as they tumble over each other toward the scattering of fresh powdery scratch, heads bobbing, rear ends up in the air without the slightest touch of self-consciousness, cackling admonishments and advice in that secret language only chickens can understand. It’s both privilege and tonic to me, and I climb into the truck to go to work, with no desire to spoil the moment by turning on the radio news.

When the month of May brings around all manner of new life and baby everything here, it’s impossible not to smile. One year, I watched from a safe distance as a mother skunk took her twins for a stroll down the driveway, away from the house. She was all purpose and stride, and behind her, the little ones tumbled and bounced along, bumping into each other intentionally and goofing off instead of trying to keep up with her. They invented a game where one would walk in a diagonal line to the right, and the other would walk diagonally to the left until they met in the middle behind mama’s steady gait, giggling and snuffling in the gravel. They kept this up all the way across the bridge, and I clapped with delight for the sheer joy of getting to see such a display of play unfold on the land where I lived and ate most of my meals.

Another summer, when Mom had come to visit for the weekend, a family of deer—doe and buck, and two offspring, their tawny fur still bearing the spots of their youth—picked its way across the neighbor’s mown field to the south, and we watched as the young ones chased each other back and forth, sprinting then stopping short as their noses touched, then jumping excitedly around in circles. Mom was enchanted and I was so grateful; it’s pure gift when the land performs like this and the people I love are within arm’s reach to share the moment.

And isn’t that the point of humor, to bring joy? A good belly laugh centers us in the moment, and refills our reservoir of goodwill, making it possible to face the more serious situations in our lives without completely crumbling into dust. It also connects us to each other in easy and pleasant ways, ways that we hope to repeat the next time we meet, and if this all continues, we’ll have a new friend before long.

I do have my sock-less sandals ready to go as the spring meshes into summer. But I’ll keep my farting shoes handy just in case. Some of the members of my humor tribe work right down the hallway from me, and I’d hate to disappoint them.