One Week and Counting

In theory, one week from right now, thanks to the efforts of a burly moving crew employed to be here at 8am Tuesday next, we'll be sitting in our new house with our furniture surrounding us.

In theory, we will also have bathroom facilities, running water, lights, and heat even though none of that is a reality as of this writing.

Oh, the animals will still be here at the old house till the fences are complete, and 99% of our clothing, dishes, knick knacks and books will move room by room, box by box, absolute favorites first and working our way down till the new house looks finished- then that's it. No more may pass.

We probably won't have TV or internet hookups yet and we're leaving Joe here to guard all our debris.

I have high hopes of going through it all and dividing the chosen from the left-behinds, holding some sort of True Rummage sale (no sorting or pricing- just root through the mess and ask me "Hey- what do you want for THIS?"), donating/dumpstering the remains and doing a general hose-down of the place well before our turnover date of February 1st.

And that'll be that.

This grand old house will pass from our care to someone elses'- and we won't be coming Home to Here anymore- Home will be There.

After 15 years, the road Home will be different. Familiar, similar, but different.

For 15 years, these walls, this roof, embraced first me as a single woman, then myself and Ward as a new couple, saw the birth of Alec right here, was our refuge in sickness and health, in good times and bad.

Built in 1890, our occupancy only amounts to 13% of its age so far- so much history before us, so much more to come.

I'm not whining, and I'm not complaining. This move, this new place, this transition, is something we've worked very hard for and waited a long time for, and we're all excited about it- the new Home will be a perfect fit for us...forever.

I just hope our old house knows how much we love it and how very grateful we are for its shelter and protection, for its lessons on how a structure should be built for climate control using natural ventilation, taking advantage of natural lighting via window placement, but most of all for its very real sense of Home.

Lists

My world, like most peoples', is filled with lists.

Grocery lists, shopping lists, errand lists, chore lists.

Lists on the telephone, the computer, typed neatly and posted on the wall or scratched onto the back of a junk mail envelope using a pen that's out of ink.

There's a running list on the Notepad feature of my phone- stuff we need at the store...next time we're there.

I travel at all times with 2 bags plus my purse- my work bag and the "house building stuff" bag.

The work bag is a misnomer since it's got the stuff (and lists) for the taekwondo club Alec belongs to in one section- I'm the treasurer of the club.
It's got our bills to be paid and calls to be made (in list form) in another section.
And there is work stuff in there too- schedules, calls, orders, lists.

The house bag has all the details of our building project- contracts, blueprints, receipts, business cards and phone numbers. And many. Many. Lists.

On one of my lists is the directive to "clean out all drawers and surfaces". This is daunting because we're packrats, every one of us. But I need to clean those areas in order to get to the furniture we want to move, and this whole Moving Thing is an exercise in cleaning out the old, shaking off the cobwebs from our previous life, starting anew and all that drivel.

Here's the thing.

I'm finding, tucked into drawers and cupboards and files...alot of old lists.

And that slows me down, because they must be read, remembered, validated before either being tossed out or saved.

I'm not talking about old grocery lists, those are easy to discard- I'm talking about

the many many lists and plans and letters and drawings that led up to the reality of the house we're now building (these get saved).

Christmas wish lists painstakingly written out in ever-more-legible handwriting by our son- and I wonder, now that he knows "about Santa" will there be a wish list this year? I remembered the conversation that led up to the very large next step of being grown-up-

"Mom- is Santa real?"
"Well, son, what do you think?"
"I don't know- that's why I'm asking you."
"Son, Santa is the spirit of giving. In that respect he's very real, and always will be."
"Soooo...he's you."
"Yes, dear."
"But mom?"
"Yes, dear?"
"I always put the really expensive stuff on Santa's list because I knew you couldn't afford them".
"Yes dear."
"Mom? I always got those expensive presents".
"I know dear."
*Pause*
"So you're Santa."
"Fraid so."
"All this time you've been Santa."
"Yep."
*Pause"
"Mom?"
"Yes dear?"
(whispered) "Does dad know?"
(whispered) "No dear- lets not tell him- he's had a rough couple of years..."

the Christmas lists ALWAYS get saved.

There are worn, stained mapquested route pages from every epic journey we've taken ("Family Vacation" just doesn't cover the scope of how we travel...). Those got saved.

So I was actually enjoying my little jaunt down List Memory Lane.

Until.

Going through a pile of stuff we brought back from the last trip to MDAnderson I found The List.

It's dated April 29, 2010, about a week before Ward's discharge and from the Social Worker at MDA. See, he'd reached a point where he didn't NEED to be in the hospital anymore- but physically he couldn't walk more than a few steps and mentally he was still really really fuzzy. Really. He was weak and fuzzy from drug reactions and weeks of intensive care and two major surgeries and heart failure and pneumonia and he was just plain wore out.

And they told me that they were stumped that he was not improving from the point he was at- and they hinted and inferred that where he was might be all the better he got- physically wheelchair bound and mid-Alzheimer's mentally.

There was concern that I wouldn't be able to take care of my husband, wouldn't be able to handle his handicaps in our home. It was strongly suggested that he not come home, at least for a few weeks. Or months. Or however long it took for him to be more "mentally reliable" and for him to get stronger.

And they handed me The List.

"Nursing Homes and Rehabilitation Facilities in the Greater Houston Area".

But I couldn't, wouldn't do it.

I just couldn't merge together the repeated assurances that the more people he knew that were around him the quicker he'd recover and remember with putting him in a COMPLETELY different environment he'd never been in before filled with all new people he'd never seen before.

He's my husband. No one knows him, loves him and cares about him more than I do, and I was determined to bring him home.

Because I work flexible hours, and because Joe was here to assist physically if needed and to be watchful when I had to be at work- leaving Ward never alone at home- we were approved to come home. All of us. Together.

Five months later, Ward's pretty much back to his brilliant, funny, beloved old self mentally, his weight is coming up nicely from the over 40 pounds underweight he left the hospital carrying, and thanks to physical therapy he's gaining strength steadily.

I looked at The List, transfixed, paralyzed, instantly awash with the emotions the first reading of that self-same list filled me with- sadness, worry, fear.

Bleakness.

I showed The List to Ward- so much of that time was filled with stuff he can't remember, stuff he remembers but never happened, strangeness, I showed it to him so he'd know I wasn't exaggerating when I told him it was recommended that I put him in a nursing home.

Then I firmly and deliberately folded The List in half, and tucked it into The Trash.

Blogger Goes MIA- Story and Photos Below

*What a week*.

We're still in negotiations with the electric company- but I think we've worked out a scenario for both replenishing the areas that were destroyed AND coming up with a plan (having to do with strategically placed gates) so they NEVER have to cross the wetlands again.

I met with our contractor (henceforth to be referred to as "Ronnie") and he and his boys (3 strapping sons all grown up in the family contracting business and just as professional and courteous as their dad) measured out, mowed and flagged where the house is going to sit.

(Lets see if I can get through the rest of this without parentheses...bet I can't).

Now I was aware that SOME little pines would have to be sacrificed for this endeavor, but pines grow like weeds here (one reason I love this area of the country).

*(damn it- ALREADY with the parentheses??? OK- I'm REALLY going to do it this time)*.

And by little, I mean they were 6 inches high when we bought the place- see? Can't even see them above the grass.



Per the wildlife biologist, we'd left it all alone to grow up and heal. Here's what it looked like pre-mow.



I know, right? By last week I wasn't even sure we'd FIT a house in there.

Anyhoo, we'll snug the house in there right close- part of the plan to make it look like it's always been there and hopefully like it actually grew there instead of standing out like a big ol' boil on the butt of Mother Nature.

So here it is now-



Yesterday we met Ronnie and his lovely wife Tracy at the title company office and signed about a hundred papers all saying pretty much the same thing- namely that our ass is the bank's for the next 20 years. But the GOOD news is that we have a shiny new Interim Building Checking Account and are Official Home Builders.

The title company lady said the same thing the bank lady has been saying- "You know, you're a little more 'hands on' than most home builders, Mrs. Dixon. Most of our owner-builders pick a plan out of a book, hand it to the builder and except for maybe a once a week visit to the site, they say 'call us when we can get the key to the front door'". It really is odd to them that *I* designed it- like with graph paper, a pencil and a ruler- and *I* will be purchasing all of the incidentals like fixtures, trims, and doorknobs, and I WILL be on the jobsite every single day possible, I WILL be doing alot of the finish work my own self, and I WILL be going into work at the clinic to do my 'real job' after dark...till it's finished.

We have to be in Houston for appointments Monday thru Wednesday so will miss the first flurry of activity- the well going in, the dirtwork, resetting gates so the big equipment can get to the homesite- so we went out there today in the quiet of late afternoon and had our own little ground-breaking ceremony.



And Ward said to Alec, "Son- we're on our own now for the next few months- Mommy's going to be building a house".

And Alec sighed and said, "Yeah...I know".

What does that mean to my blogging community? That weird eclectic tiny buncha folks who actually READ this from all over the world?

When I started this, it was more of an exercise for me- as a writer I adore the Short Story, have attempted a tiny fictional work, a published journal, and a collection of beliefs, but I've got newspaper in my blood back 3 generations and have always fancied the notion of column writing. This- this blog- is my experiment to see if I can deliver something remotely worthwhile three times a week.

So I'll still attempt it- dropping off of my chair dead tired with dirt under my nails, sawdust in my hair and grout between my toes, and we'll see how it goes.

I ask in advance your forgiveness for those inevitable posts that will look like they're written in some foreign code used only by lemmings on LSD.

One more photo just because Ward's so deliciously cute-




(Ha. Made it without any more parentheses).

*(Damn it)*.

*(Grrrr....)*.

*(MAKE IT STOP!!!)*

There's No Place Like Home

I love our house.

It's old and filled with character. From its raising in Tyler's Azalea District, to its migration out to Brownsboro, to its sad intermission of neglect and decay, to my purchase of it while I was still a single woman in between husbands, it's sheltered and protected me for over 15 years- longer than I've ever lived anywhere my entire life.

My husband was my beau when I purchased the house and he walked through it with me before I bought it- not with a realtor or in the company of the owners, just by dint of there being no annoying obstructions like doors or walls standing in the way of walking through it. Always a man of few words yet deep thought, his only comment was "Lotta work". And it has been a lotta work- and it's not even "finished" yet- all the finish work remains to be done. Ward's never lived in a Fixer Upper before, but he loves this house too- and the 15 years he's lived here have been longer than he's ever lived anywhere in his entire life.

Our son was born here. Not as in "we brought him home from the hospital to this house" but as in "he was born HERE- right here in our bed with the aid of midwives- like...on purpose". Obviously, Alec's never lived anywhere longer in his entire life.

About ten years ago we started looking for larger parcels of land with the intention of moving this house somewhere else- hey, it's done it before...but all the many hundreds of parcels we drove past and the dozens we actually walked were not nearly as pretty as the mere three acres we've got here.

Five years ago we found what we were looking for only three miles from here. Smaller in size than what we thought we wanted- we'd thought we wanted something with at least twenty acres and what we bought is only twelve- it's nevertheless got so many more features and micro-eco-systems that it "lives bigger".

One thing only casts a sad shadow on this otherwise perfect piece of land- the trees arch across the tiny county road and meet in the middle- the road Home is a living tunnel across two wooden bridges.

Moving the house would necessitate cutting those trees back to get the house through.

Ain't happening.

So the house stays, and the quest for the perfect stewards for our beloved homestead started. We've been close a few times- three to be exact- but it never quite happened. And most of the last few years that's been okay because we've been in Houston so much dealing with that pesky cancer and the aftermath thereof.

We've just come reeling back after a particularly nasty stretch and just like magic we have not one, but TWO possibly perfect families for our home and the chances are good that this time it will really happen- we'll be handing over keys to the front door to someone and pulling out of our yard for the last time within months (I can't say "weeks" as that gives me a panic attack. Those who've seen our STUFF understand).

So what's the problem?

The new place is GREAT- there's a hill rising 150ft. in the back right corner from the low point in the front left corner- the wetlands filled with springs. There's not one, but TWO live creeks that never go dry even in the worst drought years anyone can remember, but that also never jump their banks when everything else is flash-flooding. There are huge trees and dogwoods and wildlife to beat the band. Meadows and shady glades and an old slatted hay barn and...and...and...

Hey. Where's the house? Where's the animal barn and fences?? Where's the WELL???

*Exactly*.

We're Not Worthy

I grew up in a simpler time.

A skin-of-my-teeth child of the 50's, we lived a pretty stereotypical life- dad worked at the same place from his late 20's (after his 4 years in the Navy) till the day he retired, mom stayed home to raise us till we were both in school all day long and she then picked up a part-time job so she'd be home when we got there every day.

Our family consisted of dad, mom, myself, and my brother.

Mom and dad rented a little bungalow surrounded by trees in a quiet neighborhood- we could see the elementary school from our front window- one of my earliest memories is asking my mom why the flag was "not all the way to the top" and she explained through tears that someone had shot and killed President Kennedy.

After they saved enough money, my parents took the ultimate plunge- Home Ownership- and purchased a newer (but not new) house in a less treed (but still quiet) neighborhood. Our lot was 40ft by 120ft, and the house consisted of a small eat-in kitchen, a small living room (mom's spinet piano took up a good quarter of the room), 3 tiny bedrooms and 1 bathroom.

Although the elementary school was a different one, we could still see it from our front porch.

I guess I shouldn'tve used the past tense about our house since mom and dad still live there 38 years later.

That's how things were done in our parents' day, and in THEIR parents' day. People got and stayed married, had 2 children- a boy and a girl, worked for the same company till they got their gold watch and a cake-filled sendoff, saved up, bought a house, and lived there till the end credits rolled.

So it's a surprise, and not a good one, for our generation to find ourselves changing jobs every few years, changing spouses at least once, moving long distances at the insistence of employment or matrimony, and generally not having the deep roots of our recent ancestors.

Jobs are no longer something secure, marriage is no longer "till death us do part", and houses are investments instead of homes. Everything is "A Journey" implying that we keep moving, keep searching, never quite managing to get There.

Only one thing has remained the same, stayed solidly unmoving, unbending and impregnable- The Credit Score.

The Credit Score is an antiquated gauge of judging a person's credit-worthiness.

There are the Big Three reporting agencies who tally up every good and bad bit of your credit history and those numbers are added together and averaged and in a whole lot of lending institutions will determine if your application even gets glanced at, or if it gets shit-canned out of hand.

I worked in the financial industry for a few years- first as a bank teller, and then at a private loan company, and I've always thought the Credit Score was sketchy at best. There are alot of mistakes on them, for starters. You'd think that something this crucial would have a little more care taken to the accuracy of the reports.

But you'd be wrong.

I can't remember a single report that I pulled that was 100% correct.

And here's the hilarious part.

It takes a slew of phone calls, a ream of letters, and a notarized blessing from god to take off the mistakes.

And it'll take months to do so.

Here's why this is today's topic.

We're trying to build a house. A very tiny simple house on land that's 1/2 paid for so plenty of equity there. We can afford to do it. We have everything lined up to do it. Although our original plan was to go sans bank and build it ourselves, recent events have dictated that someone else build the house and we pay it off as quickly as we can.

The lady at the bank nodded and added things up and smiled.

Then she pulled the credit reports.

There are medical bills on there with outstanding balances- but they're not supposed to look at those.

There are 2 items there that have been wrongly reported.

I called both companies and they verified that we are not, in fact, deadbeats, and that they like us just fine. But I'll have to go through "Credit Reporting Dispute" to get the report changed, which (as stated above) is messy and onerous and will take several MONTHS to accomplish.

This is a small local bank, and the one who deals exclusively with our builder, so my hope is that they'll take the telephone verification at face value and proceed As If.

Otherwise, we're momentarily screwed through no fault of our own.

I'm hearing from alot of bankers that "It's almost impossible to get a construction loan right now".

Why? The banks got all that bail-out money, right? Where did THAT go? Oh. Wait. I already mentioned where that went, it went to all those brand new bank buildings cropping up everywhere with the empty parking lots since they WON'T GIVE ANYONE ANY MONEY.

I'm hearing from alot of bankers that they "can't even look at someone unless their credit score is over 750. Ours right now is hovering around 600- and that's with us at the same residence and employment for over 15 years, ONE car note,and ONE credit card. I cannot conceive that in today's high mobility-high debt load-high unemployment-high foreclosure society that very many people can manage over 750 anymore.

I've always said that "Banks only loan to people who don't really need it", and that seems even more true now.

So we'll stay with the small local banks, and cross our fingers, and hope they can see past The Credit Score, and into our characters and history.

But we won't hold our breath.

The Stuff of Our Lives

We're packrats.

All of us are packrats. If we bring something into our house, it's found a home forever. Doesn't have to be useful, or valuable, or even recognizable- once over the threshold, it's a permanent fixture.

Alot of our friends are also packrats- the ones we feel most comfortable with. We do have friends who seem to "travel lightly" through life- who can actually say "If I'm not going to use this again, or if I don't know what the heck it is, or if I haven't laid hands or eyes on it for a year, out it goes".

Those people kind of creep me out a little bit.

Now, I'm not talking the stuff of Cops- piles of trash and garbage climbing the walls, oozing out from under the beds, and evolving or mutating its way out of the fridge. I try to keep all that stuff under control (although there are two or three closets in this house I won't open).

No, our stuff is mostly books, magazines and memorabilia. Photographs, negatives, prints and enlargements stack up the years and vacations, births and birthdays before I went (mostly) digital.

Books. Don't speak to me of Books. Every one of us is a sucker for a good book. I know there's a world of information on the interwebs, including books available to read, but there's something about holding a real book, feeling its heft, turning the pages- reading is (or should be) a tactile event as well as a visual one. Given a choice of destination for an afternoon, all of us will choose Bookstore over mall, or sporting event, or watering hole/eatery. The only thing that rates higher than a bookstore is a park during pretty weather.

So we have books. Thousands of 'em. They've long outgrown our many bookshelves and stack on every horizontal surface in every room and stalagmite up around those surfaces- satellite islands of books surrounding the mainland shelves, dressers and tables.

Any inch not occupied by photographs or books contains memorabilia- the stuff our moms called knick knacks. Not purchased from the furniture store, or Pier One- the knick knacks of our life were hand-picked by my favorite designers- my children and friends. From a tin rooster to a family of resin giraffes to a carved and painted gourd each piece reminds me of the giver and it gives me happiness to dust them, to handle them, to be able to touch something linking me to a loved one no matter how far the distance or time between us may be.

Now, all this stuff would not be a problem except...

...we're fixin' to move. We need to market the house.

If you have ever seen five minutes of the Home and Garden Channel, you know that a house must be more than clean, more than located in a good neighborhood, and more than priced fairly.

It must be "staged".

Staging a house means, in a nutshell, that all personal items must be removed, and all rooms painted a neutral color. Perhaps now is a good time to mention that our rooms are lavender, red, peach, blue, yellow, pink, green, and even a plaid- not a neutral in sight.

Are we starting to see the problem?

I guess I shouldn't worry.

No one in their right mind will make it past the drooly giant dog on the front mat, the turkey on the porch railing, the goats in the yard, the chickens in the tree and the ducks everywhere else.

*We're doomed.*

"Wanted- funny farm desires new caretakers- must love old houses, big trees, small livestock and have excellent sense of humor and imagination."