Thursday, October 03, 2013
Morning Thanks--the new place
"You're too old to build a new house," my wife's cousin cracked, a wry smile on his chops. It's not something we hadn't thought of--we are too old. Look, at best we're going to be here no longer than 15 years, and what's 15 years? Not much.
Neither of us had ever dreamed of building a house. We've had dreams, but none having a thing to do with the shape of a kitchen or a layout of basement. We didn't spend hours and hours coming up with "our colors," whatever the heck that means. For most of my life I have been writing from a spacious basement room in a century-old house--arts and crafts or something, I'm told--a space with a yard-wide oblong window up at the ceiling, one of those you can flap open come summer and look out at the lip of the sidewalk beside the house.
Right now, it's pitch dark outside, and from where I'm sitting I can see some faraway traffic on highway 60; otherwise, most of what's in front of me is window, not wall. Once the sun rises, which I can see from this very chair, it'll light a broad landscape crescent that this morning will include, I'm sure, a couple of monsters crawling dustily through crackling cornfields or dried-up beans eating up a crop or two. My feet are up, the laptop is in front of me, and it won't be long and I'll be able to see forever.
The new house is a mess. Last night, after nine, when our buff college guys left having hefted the entire mess of our lives to the new place, we sat down and wondered whether we could even move if we'd ever stand again. Braced with a just amount of ibuprofen, we limped noisily to the bedroom, found an amazing reserve of strength, enough to make the bed, then fell in, and suffered through an awful night of sleep, here and there muscles screaming like abused and angry birds.
But we're here. We're in. If I'd turn off the dehumidifier, the house would be silent as a church. The downstairs outlets don't work, we're expecting a bunch of other stuff--our first new couch in forty years of marriage!--and I've got a ton of work out back on landscaping; there's much to do, but we're in.
Supposed to be rainy today, I guess, which'll dampen the dust but not our house, nor, I might add, our love.
That's what this new place houses, really. I love the windows and the view, but there's more to it, I know--and I've got that too, loads of it because it wasn't a horror for all of those years in a basement, wasn't a horror at all.
And now we're in a new place, a brand new place no one else ever inhabited, a place where dawns will arise in brightness that sometimes seems almost livid just outside our door, a place we'll watch sunsets too, even our own.
And that's okay. Life is good.