Let me start off by saying I am not a prude.
Okay, maybe I am by television standards. But as attitudes go here in the Shenandoah Valley, I'm pretty laid back.
I understand the lure of practices like nude sunbathing, though I would never indulge myself - not out of embarrassment, you understand, but more as a public service. And I'm in complete agreement that when you are at home you can dress as scantily as you like, an opinion I have to convince myself of everyday considering the chosen domestic attire of the men parading around my house. (In case you are picturing a sort of orgy of Chippendales dancers frolicking around my settee, know that two of them I spawned myself and have been married to the other for almost 21 years.)
Believe me, I know that this time of year most of the country is sweltering in temperatures over the 90-degree mark, making the outside very uncomfortable. But let's face it, folks: just about everywhere is air conditioned these days. We're going from an air conditioned car to an air conditioned building and only briefly feel that heat.
The point of what I'm trying to say is this: For the love of God, people - cover up.
I'd like to say my request comes from a deep seeded concern for the epidural health of each and every one of you and for my concern that an epidemic of basal cell carcinoma will put further strain on an already shaky health care system. It would be nice if a simple tube of sunscreen would be all that is required to placate me.
No, I'm afraid that in order to make it safe for me and those like me to venture into Target any time in the coming weeks there will have to be some major wardrobe adjustments to be made.
Because frankly, people, most of you are not in as good condition as you think you are.
Men, your waist is above your hip bone, not just above your crotch. For those of you who haven't seen your hip bones since Sonny and Cher were together, stop wearing the same pant waist size you were wearing back then. In fact, in some areas this practice is downright illegal.
And, having worked several jobs with the general public, I know of the male illusion that women are dying to see your bare chest.
Honestly, guys - not so much. I don't care how buff you perceive yourself to be, we just don't need to experience your hairy paunchy self while trying to count your cashed check out to you. It's not like there is a t-shirt shortage.
And women, when there is an official name for your fashion faux pas, the only excuse for still allowing it to show is some sort of psychological condition; so either buy your true size or put a tunic over that muffin top. Believe me, being shaped like a gnome, I accept there are certain fashion choices that are closed to me. The low rise jean will never be my friend.
We won't be able to make it to the beach this year, but I just know there are going to be some of you donning Speedos and bikinis who should be thinking in terms of swimming trunks and swimdresses.
To be honest, though, the appearance factor is only the tip of the iceberg. The thing I really have a problem with is all that strange skin being so accessible in public places.
I know, I know. You took a shower this morning and are fresh as a daisy. But you've also been running around in 90-degree heat all day and, frankly, you're a little clammy. And not everyone is as conscientious as you, so they're clammy and starting to turn - and I just know you all are getting on that crowded elevator with me.
I'm aware that this may be only a personal peeve. I can't even watch people hug each other after one of them has, say, completed a marathon, let alone embrace my own kid when he's just come in from running my dogs around the neighborhood to give them a good workout. Of course, knowing this, they chase me around the house yelling, "Mommy! Give your baby boy a BIG HUG!"
My personal phobias notwithstanding, I find it rather egotistical when someone thinks that their body is so attractive they need to be in everyone's face with it. I feel this way not only because of the arrogance involved, but also because 95 percent of the time they're wrong.
And the other five percent just isn't worth it.
So my in-laws backed up their car and unloaded a boatload of boxes - "Do you have room?"
They were cleaning out, my mother-in-law said. They were clearing out the clutter in the basement. This stuff, it seems, was "ours."
This came as a surprise, since I've tackled that urge to accumulate. I wondered how it was that I'd accumulated so much clutter that I'd spilled over into my in-laws space.
"It's all that Thomas stuff," my mother-in-law said.
Ahh! Now it begins to gel.
The Heirs were absolutely besotted by Thomas the Tank Engine, during the railroad show's first incarnation that featured - bizarrely - Ringo Starr or George Carlin as "Mr. Conductor." For several years you couldn't navigate our living room without stepping on Annie or Clarabell, Thomas's passenger cars, or James or Gordon, Thomas' train friends.
The boys' Thomas trains, die-cast replicas of each character, have been packed away. The die-cast version was discontinued in favor of larger wooden toys that ran on tracks. But by the time the new toys were out, the Heirs were outgrowing the series.
But what my in-laws were now unloading were not the toys with which the Heirs played, but the newer versions. They'd never been taken out of their packaging. They were never to be taken out of their packaging. From what I could tell, my in-laws had saved them for the Heirs so they could cart them around in a box for all eternity.
But first I had to store them until the Heirs had somewhere of their own to cart them to.
My mother-in-law, I should explain, is a collectible person. We all know at least one. Spurred by the high prices being paid for the flotsam and jetsam that floated through the Baby Boomer's childhood, a collectible person tries to spot the trend of the current generation that will yield the $3,000 price tag that a boxed mint-condition original Barbie yields in today's market.
I might add that I refer to "collectibles" by another name: Clutter.
While there were some anal-retentive Baby Boomers out there who actually kept their Barbie doll box, most of us didn't because, being children, we shoved Barbie in her official Barbie carrying case and pitched the box. Hence the boxed mint-conditioned Barbie yields a huge price tag because the bulk of us children treated the doll as she was meant to be treated - as a toy.
It's not just dolls. My brother horrified a roomful of friends and family recently by buying a year's full series of baseball cards and then opening the box to look at them. There was an audible gasp from everyone in the room and my brother looked up, bewildered. For the past 48 years, he's been buying baseball cards, memorizing the statistics on the backs of the cards, crunching the numbers and coming up with his own mind-numbing trivia. To him, that's what baseball cards are for.
"In that case," a friend advised, "you buy two sets, one to look at and one to keep."
"Why would I keep an unopened box of baseball cards?"
"They'll be worth money one day."
Ah ! There's the key: one day that box of junk you've been carting around will become valuable, just like my brother's old Matchbox cars, which are worth some money in their beat up, played-heavy condition.
I had a friend who spent the 90s pursuing Beanie Babies, bean bag toys in the shapes of various animals. She'd miss lunch to track down particularly rare versions she was sure would pay for a luxurious retirement in 20 years or so.
Now far be it from me to denigrate someone else's passion. If decorating your house in every version of tuna can known to man makes you happy, by all means have at it. And had my friend wanted to have garish furry road kill draped over her curtain rods that was okay with me. Only she didn't.
I don't think she even liked Beanie Babies. So she boxed them up and put them away.
Ten years later they're still in the box and she's still working because everybody bought Beanie Babies to keep as collectibles. Someday Beanie Babies may be worth something, but probably not in our lifetime. She would have been better off researching a prospectus on her lunch hour.
Then again, so would I.
Oh, and the Thomas Trains slated for the Heirs' future posterity? They took one look at them and said in unison, "E-bay!"
This week I retrieved a small metal box from our "slated for the yard sale" bin. It had an attached lid and was decorated with a Christmas motif. I think I paid a dime for it at a craft store clearance and gave Heir 2 his homemade Christmas candy in it.
So I bought myself a small spray can of sour apple green paint to obliterate the holiday theme and used leftovers from another project to paint cherries on it. I did this over the course of a few days, in between other tasks, a little creative respite while I hammered away at the necessary daily tasks. Now I bring the tin with me to carry my coupons when I go grocery shopping.
No, you haven't stumbled upon a craft column. But I would like to point out how extremely happy the entire process and its end result made me. For one thing, for the first time in a long time coupons were available that we could actually use, as opposed to pre-prepared and junk foods that are usually featured.
Not only that, but the color made me happy, especially spraying it on (Heir 1 suggested the fumes may have had something to do with my delight) and the cherries made me feel artistic. So when I pass by my coupon tin and I can't help but smile, even though I just know the Heirs are secretly plotting my committal.
"Simple pleasures" is the term lifestyle magazines use. But I have a hard time listening to a $7.95 magazine talk about "frugal fancies."
We tend to think of simple pleasures as the little stuff we get to enjoy until the big payoff comes along. The butterfly flitting among the petunias may get us through the day, but July better see us sipping a margarita on the beach if we're going to be expected to put up with the rest of the detritus that comes with life. Cool sheets and a soft bed at the end of a day spent doing back breaking yard work is swell for now, but that impressive job with the hefty income is just around the corner too - right?
There's always something around the corner: the special job, the perfect figure, the ideal mate, living "there" instead of "here." There is always something to achieve or somewhere to be or something to have that will make it all come together and then, then, we will finally be happy.
I can't argue that those big payoff moments are heady. Television would have you think that life is one adrenaline rush after another and it's a handy tool for a vicarious hit. But the reality is that most of life is pretty mundane. If you are counting on those big payoff adrenaline rushes for your happiness, you are going to spend 95 percent or more of your life in a state of anticipation or disappointment.
I was driving home around dusk the other evening, taking my usual long way home over the back roads. Here in the Shenandoah Valley it's been hot and humid during the day broken with severe thunderstorms in the late afternoon. On this particular day, though, the temperature also plummeted by 20 degrees in a short period of time, causing ground fog in low-lying areas. As I topped one of the foothills I emerged from that fog to see what looked to be a sea of mist dotted with tiny islands leading to the huge mountain in the distance. I pulled over immediately and watched for awhile as earth and air temperatures merged and the fog dissipated, leaving me with the familiar sight of the foothills leading to the elderly Blue Ridge Mountains.
Three or four cars passed and their passengers were staring, not at the incredible panorama before them, but at me. Off they sped, probably on their way to buy a framed picture of the foothills of the Blue Ridge awash in mist.
For me the chances of there being anymore big payoff adrenaline rushes are pretty slim. Oh, I don't discount them and it's not that I've become jaded either. I would welcome a windfall from the lottery (if I played) or Heir 2 getting into MIT on a full scholarship or for the housing glut to be over and Dirtman working at full throttle.
But today I found a $1 coupon for 8 O'Clock Coffee Beans and throw-away petunia plants for the front planters and last night Dirtman and I counted 15 rabbits at one time nibbling on clover in the back yard.
It truly is enough.
Obvious attempts at parenting annoy me.
I think it annoys kids too, because they always choose a public showcase for their transgressions, almost as if to say, "Go ahead and just try to manipulate me like your schedule."
So when the ecumenical Beliefnet's Nell Minow recently released a list of the top ten movies for teaching family values, my reaction was a shrug and a "feh." Even Minow admits that children learn values mostly by observing their parents. But there is something about lists like these that organizations find irresistible. Look for the Top Ten Movies that Corrupt the Lessons Learned in the Top Ten Movies that Teach Values. We just love parenting whittled down to a tidy little list.
But these are huge concepts: responsibility, loyalty, integrity, courage, courtesy, tolerance, the value of education, fairness, peace and helping others. It takes more than an afternoon of movie viewing to teach responsibility when your gold fish is swimming in three inches of sludge and the air filter on your heating system is older than that bottle of Worcestershire sauce in your fridge.
So, thanks Nell Minow, but I'll pass, in spite of the satisfaction and relief from guilt I would get from putting a check mark next to the word "integrity" ("Did Little Finster watch all of Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory? Didn't he nod off just after Veruca Salt fell into the bad egg chute? He never did see Charlie return the Everlasting Gobstopper. Does it still count as a lesson?").
I don't want to dismiss movies as a teaching tool, though. I think there are some very down-to-earth lessons to be learned from them - tangible, useful lessons.
For instance, every young girl should be forced to watch Peter Pan, the earlier the better. She needs to know what she will be up against for the rest of her life when dealing with men. Because it's true: they never grow up and they run with a pack of Lost Boys just waiting to spill beer on the sofa in the Wendy House. And then, of course, there is that memorable line at the end: you know - when Wendy admits to being "so ever much more than 20" and Peter deems her too old and opts for her daughter Jane instead. Remember the line Jane says as she goes flying out the window? "He wants me to always do his spring cleaning!" she cries wistfully.
So there ya go: You just found Neverland.
From a practical standpoint, I'd recommend Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House. It's probably going to strike most kids as rather boring in that it's in black and white and usually falls under the classification of a "romantic comedy." But, if viewed an ample amount of times before the age of 30, your child will know that, instead of attempting to build himself a dream home, to simply beat himself over the head with a board until he is declared brain dead and sent to an institution for a long rest.
Then there is Inherit the Wind. I only throw this in my mix because it stands about as much chance holding a kid's attention as Minow's choice of A Man for All Seasons.
My favorite movies, though, are ones I can have them watch that benefit me also. They may not be the standard "family movie" fare, but - hey - aren't I part of the family?
Want to enjoy your vacation and rest on the beach without having to worry about your kid drowning? Jaws.
Got a kid who just doesn't appreciate all you do for him or her? Mommie Dearest.
Got a little tyke who won't stay in his bed at night? Poltergeist. You don't even have to watch the whole movie. Just fast forward to the spot where the kid checks under the bed and the evil clown doll grabs him and drags him under. You won't have to worry about little Britney toddling into your room and spoiling Mommy/Daddy time until she's 25 and firmly entrenched in therapy three times a week.
Sometimes, though, the lesson may need a little help, as I learned from my mother, who needed to teach me not to fidget while she combed my hair. She chose as a teaching tool Alfred Hitchcock's classic The Birds. At that pivotal moment during the birthday party scene when several ravens attack Veronica Cartwright and Tippi Hedren tackles her and pries them off, my mother whispered in my ear: "See, Jeanne. That little girl wouldn't let her mother comb her hair either and now the birds want to build a nest in it."
For a month she had to pry me out of the house. Which is a lesson in and of itself: be careful your lessons don't backfire.
I caved in this year and turned on the air conditioning a full three weeks before I usually do.
I like having the option of AC, but I'm not fond of the artificial atmosphere it creates - or the power bill it generates. When the air conditioning is running I end up spending my spare time out on the patio in the heat. I like feeling my seasons. And it's so sad that the sound of birds singing is blotted out by the sound of everyone's AC compressor running.
My family, though, is not in agreement. In all fairness, Dirtman is out working in the heat. So I can't blame him for wanting to come home, take a shower and be able to dry off from that shower instead of going directly back to sweating. Heir 1, who lives in the basement (with the dogs), insists the temperature "here on the surface" is too stifling for subterranean creatures such as himself.
We've only recently had the option of air conditioning. While the boys were growing up our days during a heat wave were spent at either the public library or the town pool. I'd grill food or use the crock pot out on the front porch in order to avoid heating up the kitchen. We went to the movies a lot in the summer and nearby we are lucky enough to have a drive-in theater which, at the time, cost $10 for a carload.
Before we all slip into "those were the days" mode though, I also remember there would strings of days - usually the last week of July through the first few weeks of August, where my only capability was to sit in a damp pile and pray that someone would just walk by and move the air a little.
Still, I kind of miss the days when the only way to cope with 100-degree heat was to slow down. Growing up, you knew it was a hot day when the businessmen in town actually removed their suit jackets and maybe even loosened their ties.
I remember bedtime, normally early and ritualistic with my parents, became arbitrary and casual when the heat rose. It was too hot in the house to get to sleep, so after a cool bath we'd be allowed to sit on the front porch with the adults as long as we were calm and quiet. My father would make us all what he called "orangeade," which was actually severely watered down orange juice over ice. Everyone in the neighborhood would be out, all listening to a common radio station broadcasting a ballgame. To this day the phrase "Swing and a miss!" makes me instantly think of the smell of Johnson's baby powder and lightening bugs winking in the darkening shadows of the yard.
Air conditioning has contributed the blandness of air, as I like to call it. Our culture has developed this abnormal fear of the odor of day-to-day living, so I guess for most this is a good thing. But in our zeal to rid ourselves of anything smelling even slightly off, we've lost the most potent memory trigger among our senses.
Not all summertime smells were bad and, frankly, I miss them. And it's not just the smell of honeysuckle wafting through an open window. I remember the smell of the old Bishop Memorial Library where I grew up: all must, dust, old leather and the fragrance of yew bushes surrounding the ancient building carried in on a breeze through the open screen windows. If you got there early enough, you could score the seat next to the fan. Or, if you were truly lucky, it would rain, cooling things off and releasing a heady aroma. I spent a dreamy August week there one year it rained continually and I read every Walter Farley book ever printed through 1964. I'm sure the library is all air conditioned now and smelling of...nothing (Sadly, I also know it's been absorbed by the Ocean County Library system).
With air conditioning everywhere there is no need anymore of a "summer wardrobe." Or, if anyone insists on a summer wardrobe from a fashion standpoint, they walk around shivering like a Mexican Hairless.
Ice cream and Popsicles aren't quite as good when consumed in air conditioning. There was something so gratifying about riding your bicycle half a mile or more in blazing summer air smelling of liquid asphalt and grass clippings to the 7-Eleven, rewarding yourself with a Slurpee and a Teen Magazine with Bobby Sherman on the cover. Or something like that.
Then again, there was the bike ride back home, arriving sweatier and stickier than you left. And trying to sleep at night when your parents will only run one fan in the hallway because they are afraid you or your brothers will sleep walk into the spinning blades. Or getting into a car and having to sit on towels so the vinyl won't burn the backs of your legs.
So I guess I'll stick with my optional air conditioning, noise and all. I guess it's a lot better than the sound of six dogs panting. We won't even go into the memories invoked by that smell.
As any parent will tell you, the best results in raising children come when you allow them to arrive at the correct conclusion themselves without commanding or ordering them around. There are times for autocratic rule, particularly in matters of safety; but lessons are best learned as a matter of self-revelation - or self-preservation.
As homeschool parents we used this method probably more than any other educational system. For instance, our lessons on fractions were taught, for the most part, by baking. I'd take a basic muffin recipe and have them make a regular batch, then half a batch, then a specific number of muffins. I'd "change my mind" halfway through a batch and have them add more. We'd double, triple or quadruple batches until our neighborhood was awash in muffins. Yes, yes, there were the requisite curriculum worksheets that backed up what we were doing. But nothing solidified the concept of fractions like putting them to practical use.
No, I'm not extolling the virtues of homeschooling - it has the potential to be just as successful or unsuccessful as public or private schools. And, just as in those institutions, it has its share of wonky ideas floating about. But being able to apply concepts to real life was a luxury. It takes a better person than me to do the same with a room of 20 eight-year-olds.
And, as in any other educational system, my "students" were stronger in some areas than others. Heir 2, while tolerating the process of making muffins, really didn't need it. Give him a stack of worksheets and a stop watch and he would set up a series of challenges for himself and then draw out graphs and charts to reflect his results. He did this for fun.
Heir 1, on the other hand, couldn't understand why he had to wade through the paperwork when, in the end, he came up with the requisite amount of muffins. In showing the problems written out to back up what he did in the kitchen, he constantly balked when I would correct him. "Well, yeah I wrote it down wrong," he'd admit. "But you still got another stinkin' muffin." (We were pretty sick of muffins at this point.)
Both boys are functional in math, but there's no disguising the fact that Heir 2 has a gift for it. Heir 1's talents lie in language and, since passing Algebra 2 in high school, he has left extreme calculations to his brother.
Until gas hit almost $4 a gallon.
We were all okay at about $3.29 a gallon. The cry was "All Work Together!" We'd use whatever car had gas in it to run errands or take the garbage to the dump. The boys would pick up small items from the store on their way to or from friends' houses to save me a separate trip. We each filled our own tanks and every now and then I'd buy them each a tank of gas because I appreciated their flexibility when I'd call them on their way home from a movie to tell them to stop by the all-night grocery store and pick me up a pint of Starbucks Coffee Ice Cream a gallon of milk.
And then the price of gas continued to inch up and I began noticing things. Like suddenly everyone loved my car. Now, I love my Outback but, while it's marketed as a "small SUV," what it is really is a small station wagon - the most uncool car a teenager could possibly drive. No one ever wanted to be caught dead in my Outback. Suddenly, though, I seemed to be spending more time at the gas pump and less time actually driving my own car. I caught on pretty quickly, though, and the boys were relegated to their own vehicles for entertainment purposes.
Which led to this negotiation with the golden-tongued Heir 1:
Me: On your way home, pick up a gallon of milk. Here's $4.
Heir 1: The store isn't on the road home.
Me: Huh?
Heir 1: The store is, according to the odometer, 7/10 of a mile off my route home. According to my calculations, figuring I've been getting an average of 28 mile per gallon, averaging out city and highway driving and figuring my last tank of gas was purchased for ...By my calculations, you owe me twenty-one-point ...let's say twenty-one cents."
Me: I don't believe this.
Heir 1 (pulling a sheet of paper out of his pocket): Want to see my work?
At least he didn't figure in atmospheric density and temperature variance like his brother did.
Like most of our ideas lately, the decision to utilize an antique "partner desk" in our office area seemed like a good one - at the time.
A "partner desk" is one huge desktop - the spatial equivalent of two desktops - with opposing spaces for chairs. Each side has its own set of drawers and ample space for a computer, coffee cup and associated clutter. With space around here at a premium, it seemed the obvious choice over two separate work stations. So what if there was only three feet between us?
The first sign of trouble came when Dirtman placed a small television on a side table. He didn't wait for me to whine; just looked at me defiantly and said, "I'll keep it low."
Dirtman likes to have news running all day, a practice I find not only annoying, but stressful; because to me "breaking news" is a major catastrophe; to an all-news station it's a bagel shortage in Brooklyn. So we had to come to an agreement about the amount of time the television natters at us. Frankly, I think I made the biggest concession by enduring Imus in the Morning, along with the accompanying commercials so. . . um. . . special . . . to RFDTV. I'm especially looking forward to seeing Big Joe's Polka Show this Saturday.
So we've settled into a semblance of a routine. Technically, we're facing each other as we work, but our computer screens shield our view. So at any given time I will look up to find Dirtman peering at me around or over our screens, a disconcerting sight when you've been focusing on reading something online or deep in thought about what sparkling prose is just about to flow out of your fingers onto the screen.
"What are you doing now?" he'll ask, the implication being that, since he hasn't heard any tapping of keys, I must be back here dozing off.
"Thinking," I answer.
"Hey! I know what you should write about!" What will follow is a tirade about some obscure decision by some sports decision-making body with a name like "The ACLU East" or "The Big Four" and what it means in terms of next season in (insert name of some type of ball). Because you know when it comes to sports, I'm so the woman to write about it.
I'm just starting to get used to the fact that Dirtman screaming, "OH MY GOD!" does not constitute an emergency. It just means that the Nationals dropped in the National League East Division. Or there's a new flavor of Pop Tarts.
Then there's the dopey music. Because while Dirtman is concerned that I'm napping on the job, apparently Yahoo Games is an essential part of the soils business. And every game is accompanied by ear worm music that gets into your head. Even I've learned to turn off the sound when I play Spider Solitaire. Besides, when I play Spider Solitaire, I'm thinking.
Around 3 p.m. Dirtman starts getting antsy. I'm just about to have an idea to write. . .
"Guess who pays the vice president!"
"Huh?"
"Go on - guess!"
"I don't know. . . We do?"
"Well, obviously," he scoffs. "But guess who actually pays him."
"Just tell me."
"Guess."
"I don't know. For the love of God, just tell me."
"The Senate!" he exclaims like he'd told me something far fetched like laboratory chimpanzees had been taught to do vice presidential payroll.
"Hey! Look at this!"
"I'm in the middle of something," I snap.
"I'm sending you a URL. You gotta see this! Did you get it? Did you get it? Check your e-mail. Did you get it yet? Is it there?"
That I still receive emails from him in spite of our proximity to each other strikes me as bizarre, though it is less annoying than his former method of, "Quick! Type this: www dot . . ."
Of course, the onus is on me to maintain marital harmony in spite of these close quarters. Fortunately, since I don't possess any annoying habits, this isn't too difficult. I know he finds my talking to myself inspirational. And how else would an out-of-touch middle-aged man like him find access to mind-numbing, time-draining YouTube videos if I wasn't around to enlighten him?
And I'm sure he finds the presence of my "posse" - all six dogs - comforting. Their presence leads to my own version of a guessing game: What's That Smell?
Really, he's lucky to have me here across the desk.
We're getting used to living small around here.
Well...we're getting used to living small again around here.
For the first 18 years of our marriage, Dirtman, the Heirs and I lived in a small three "sort-a" bedrooms (one was actually more of a walk-in closet), one-and-a-half bath farmhouse with iffy plumbing and an ornery furnace that would just up and quit on a whim, usually in February.
The two years we spent living in the large house we built has softened our skills in the delicate dance of living so close together. That two of us are twice as large as they were back in the old farmhouse presents an even greater challenge.
On the plus size, this two bedroom rambler where we have fled following the foreclosure of the larger house is considerably more reliable than where we started out. The size, however, is comparable.
We keep running into each other, literally. Every room is on the way to somewhere, even our bedroom, which opens to both the kitchen and the small hallway leading to the living room. This means that, as I lay relaxing in bed at night reading, Heir 2 and Dirtman parade through with various foodstuffs (because, of course, I never feed these people) and in various states of dress or undress on their way to or from the kitchen, living room or Heir 2's bedroom.
Of the smallest rooms in this small house, the kitchen is by far the smallest. As a people, we are kitchen dwellers to begin with. At any given time during the day, even when there is no cooking going on, there is always at least one person in the kitchen getting something to eat or drink or one person cleaning up after the people who have been getting something to eat or drink (strangely, never the same person).
So we are relearning the moves necessary to navigate the kitchen without a.) slamming into each other; b.) spilling whatever it is you are carrying; c.) having whatever you've prepared for yourself not eaten by someone else; or d.) stepping on a dog.
This last is an ongoing hazard. We've already worked out a schedule for having the dogs in the house, realizing from day one that all six dogs cannot be inside at the same time. They are rotated all day long between an outdoor kennel run, their own individual crates and inside the house.
Well . . .unless it's raining out. And on days it's raining out you simply don't want to be here. It involves a lot of yelling and grabbing and a whole bag of pig ears and rawhide bones. And the smell of six wet dogs digesting pig ears has brought the most fervent dog lover to her knees.
Then there is the perennial issue of bathroom etiquette. I know, I know. I should probably accept my role as Jane Goodall living among the apes, but somehow, for the sake of my future daughters-in-law, I feel I must continue the battle to just once go into the bathroom without having to clean something. I've long since given up trying to have the entire room clean at one time because inevitably I get halfway through and someone has to use it.
A small house has its advantages, though. We have to remind each other that you don't have to yell to call someone for dinner; you just have to stand in the kitchen by the heater and speak in a forceful tone.
For some this acoustical phenomenon brings to mind that touching scene at the end of every Waltons episode where everyone bids each other "goodnight" from their beds. Around here this manifests itself in a certain member of this household using the bathroom at night and the rest of the members all yelling, "FLUSH!" Not as sentimental, but infinitely more practical.
As I relate this, I am very aware that even this little house is probably as big or bigger than where most of the world is living. So I am more than grateful to be here and will make the necessary adjustments to my lifestyle.
We've even had guests over, all of whom insisted on occupying the kitchen. The last to show up was Heir 2, arriving from work just in time for dinner, of course. Finding no chair set out, he simply sat on my lap and helped himself to my pasta.
I think we'll do just fine here.
This is the first time in my life I've ever had a landlord.
If you live in an urban area, paying rent is inevitable. But around here in the rural Shenandoah Valley, renters are looked upon with skepticism. If you are 50 years old and still renting, you are looked upon with downright suspicion.
Attempting to find a home to rent was merely the first humiliation of the many to come, having had our two homes foreclosed on and forced into bankruptcy. Whoever thinks such a path is, as I've come to hear, "the easy way out" has never traveled this way. Dirtman and I are finding that declaring bankruptcy is a lot like having a building fall down around you. Just when you think it's over and you can begin climbing out, another beam knocks you on the head so you are now not only right back where you were, but you're even more injured than you were before.
I don't share this as an attempt to garner sympathy. I don't call myself a "victim" of foreclosure or the housing bubble burst. We made some really bad decisions and are paying the price. I only offer this as an insight, just in case you might think we're getting away with something. If we were, I'm pretty sure we'd be feeling a whole lot better than this.
For instance, we knew we couldn't be too fussy about where we moved to. We couldn't use an agency since agencies check credit scores. So we had to go private, relying on newspaper ads, bulletin boards or just driving around.
In short, the two-bedroom rambler was our only option, short of moving in with relatives. We were honest with the owner and admitted we'd just lost our homes in foreclosure and were in a particular hurry. He was nonplussed and said he figured we were the type of people he'd end up renting to. But, he said, he needed that rent money on time every month (emphasis his). I cringed a little. This was my first encounter with distrust.
Being shown a rental house is very different from being shown a home for sale. Basically, we were given the list of prohibitions attached to each room. He didn't want a lot of holes in the walls, the owner said after informing me the walls had to stay white. No pulling out the bank of peonies on the side of the house, he said. I wouldn't have anyway. The peonies were beautiful but, still, a part of me rankled at being told what I could and couldn't do in the place I lived.
No loud parties, no barking dogs, guests for only up to two weeks at a time. All of these are part of my lifestyle anyway, but someone else telling me I can't makes my stomach lurch.
It's a nice little house, I have to admit. And our landlord, who is also our neighbor, by some accident of good fortune (lately we've taken to calling any good things that happen "accidents"), are nice, tolerant, friendly and very understanding of our predicament.
But we are still "renters" in a neighborhood of homeowners. There was no hearty "welcome to the neighborhood." I introduced myself to a couple across the street from us. They were reluctant to offer me their names, even though I was there holding my Goodwill Ambassador, my Parson Russell Terrier Salt. They had a large black Labrador Retriever named Pepper. They stared back blankly when I chuckled at the irony. There was no attempt at making conversation.
And why should they? I had a good 20 years on both of them and here I was without the means to own my own home. They, on the other hand, had their whole lives ahead of them and they were already better off than this loser chick and her mangy dog. I knew how I looked in their eyes, assumed the appropriate humility and slunk back to my rental unit.
Still I plug on, trying to retrieve my dignity from the shambles. I weeded out the front flower bed to plant some annuals. I scrub down the stove, ridding it of years of accumulated grease. I wave to everyone whether or not they wave to me - me, the terrified introvert forced out of her comfort zone by a stereotype.
And I cut a few of the peonies and put them in a vase by my desk.
The lawyer sits across from us, trying his best to look concerned and caring, but clearly he is in a hurry. He has a waiting room full of people just like us and, he tells us, a month's backlog.
We are there to file for bankruptcy and, while he respects the paperwork we've brought along, to facilitate things he's prepared a packet that we should fill out at home and return along with his fee. He asks us about the two properties we have just lost in foreclosure: one we were supposed to sell to offset the cost of the other which, up until two days ago, we'd lived in.
Currently we're renting a two-bedroom rambler, me, Dirtman, the two Heirs, six dogs and two cats. I can't help but think of Katherine Hepburn's line from Lion in the Winter: "Packed in like the poor. Three to a bed." Our third is Topper, our Australian Shepherd, who doesn't take well to change.
Before you rush to judge, know that we didn't have a fleet of Hummers in our driveway. I don't own one single designer item; don't own a lot of jewelry, valuable or otherwise. My kids bought their cars with their own money and they both have jobs. Most nights we all eat dinner at home together. We've always vacationed within 500 miles of where we live.
Before finishing our new house, we had no credit card debt, more than six months cushion in the bank and prepared a budget for the new house that would withstand a 75 percent reduction in our business. We thought we'd planned for everything.
And, no, we didn't use a sub-prime mortgage. But we did have a house to sell that was supposed to mitigate the mortgage on the new house we were living in, a new house that ended up costing three times the estimate for one third a house due to the rise in construction costs after Hurricane Katrina. And our income depended on the decimated building industry.
The lawyer doesn't want to hear my story. He wants to know about our houses; where they're located and what we think they are worth. I realize later on that his grandson, who shares his suite of offices, is a land broker and I understand why he is anxious to handle bankruptcies and foreclosures. I understand it's just business.
To his credit, he pauses respectfully when my throat tightens as I talk about the house it took us four years to plan and build. Not a "McMansion," but certainly larger and in better shape than the 1950 farmhouse we were trying to sell.
"I'm very sorry about your house, Ma'am," he says as we walk out. He doesn't remember my name and the waiting room is crowded.
Dirtman and I fill out the lawyer's form, listing everything we own and assigning a dollar amount and I think of the general perception of people who file for bankruptcy: spoiled hedonists who play while others work hard and then dive for cover when the bill comes due.
I'd asked the lawyer if we could keep anything. I was thinking of my kitchen table, the bane of my brothers' existence since they are the ones who have had to move it every time I change residences. Every time I move my brother John tries to talk me into leaving it behind.
"They don't want your possessions," the lawyer had said.
I wondered did he mean they didn't want stuff in general or they didn't want just my stuff. And why not? Wasn't that part of the punishment for being a spoiled hedonist? And who are "they" - the faceless "trustee?" Do "they" want to hear my story about how I'm not a spoiled hedonist?
I spend the first night after seeing the lawyer worrying that they'll try to take my dogs. The second night I obsess over what I can do to give Dirtman his self-confidence back and wonder who is going to help me with mine. By the third night I'm panicking that I haven't slept much.
I'm scraped raw and bruised and have lost the right to ask anyone for sympathy. I keep my mouth shut and try to look guilty and sufficiently chastened when in public. In private I walk around angry with myself and what this is doing to my family.
A friend offers me an Ambien. I've gone 50 years without taking a single tranquilizer, through the death of both parents and the death of a son. My brothers consider me the strong one, the one who handles whatever crisis hits and bolsters everyone else.
The fourth night I take the Ambien.
