And Then There Were None: The Countdown Ends

Ever since quarantine began, I've had multiple "countdowns" going on. How many days of homeschool left to go. How many days since we'd made an offer on a new house. How many days until we signed the P&S. How many days until the close. How many days until the move. How many, how many, how many?

As of today, the answer to the question, "How many?" is, "None." Today was the day that we finally moved into our beautiful new house. First thing in the morning, the piano movers came, and while they disassembled our piano and packed it onto their truck, I packed the kids into my car (along with umpteen boxes of stuff) and raced to beat them to the new house to let them in, where they reassembled it in all its glory.

Once they were done, I packed the kids BACK into the car and we drove to Dunkin Donuts to grab some breakfast. When we got back to the new house with tummies full and eyes open, the kids got down to really exploring the house. They ran downstairs to say hello to the hamster (who was the first one to spend the night here), then they ran upstairs to check out the little room over the garage with the funny slanted ceilings. Then they each checked out their own room, plotting out where their beds and dressers and everything else would go in their new domains. They even peeped in the attic, which is even bigger than the large attic in our old house, although somewhat more unfinished (pink insulation abounds between the strips of thin plywood that form the floor). 

But what got them most excited was the pool. Although technically it's a heated pool, the pool heater does not seem to be working, and the pool doesn't currently have a solar cover, so it's open to the elements. Even so, it was surprisingly...well, not exactly warm, but it certainly wasn't cold. The kids both went in pretty quickly, and spent over an hour checking out the slide and enjoying some of the pool toys that some friends and the gracious previous owners had given us as a housewarming gift. 

While they were drying off, I was doing my usual over-organizing and had made and posted signs all over the house to let the movers know where each of the rooms was. 

I even hung post-it notes to indicate where the various pieces of furniture had to go, so they wouldn't need to wait for me or my husband to direct every single item.

By the time I'd finished, Dad was on his was with lunch and the movers were on their way with our furniture. The moving trucks arrived first, so I walked the crew of 5 through the house, explaining where everything should go. They seemed surprised and quite appreciate of my labeling system - in fact, my husband told me later than they were grateful for how organized we were, both in having the vast majority of items neatly packed and labeled before they arrived, and by not only having thought through where things would go, but literally marking the spots. The movers seemed to be in their late teens and early twenties, with one guy clearly the muscle (he hefted our grandfather clock like it was a yardstick) and once girl clearly the organizer (although she more than carried her weight - literally). They were all incredibly polite and pleasant, double-checking the placement of everything and offering to move anything we wanted, even if we had told them where to put it but changed our minds. They worked quickly and efficiently, and were careful to wrap and cover banisters and walls so nothing would be scratched or damaged. They clearly knew what they were doing and did it well, individually and as a team. I was impressed at how hard they worked, especially on such a hot day. They earned every penny of their pay and a generous tip besides. Due to their hustle, the final bill was less than the original estimate, even though we had added a number of items to our first list. (Shout out to Gentle Giant Movers in Acton MA!!)

In the midst of all the moving, the Verizon technician came to install the new router, the guy came by to clean the dryer vent, and the POD was delivered. I haven't had that many people in my house since quarantine started! (Don't worry, we wore masks and social distanced.) Throughout the whole process, I was doggedly emptying boxes, figuring out where everything belonged in the new house (so many cabinets! so much storage space!), and trying to keep the kids busy and out from underfoot. Once everyone had left, we all agreed we needed a break and we were ready for dinner, so my husband went to pick up a couple of pizzas. We sat out by the pool and enjoyed the breeze. I soaked my feet in the refreshing water of the pool, and after dinner my husband went in for a dip himself. 

After dinner, we all pretty much just flopped down wherever we could until it was time for the kids to head for bed. When we were staging our old house to put it on the market, we put my son's queen sized bed in the POD and unbunked my daughter's bunk bed, putting a single twin bed in each bedroom, so the rooms would look more spacious. The queen bed was a little too buried in the POD to pull it out tonight, so my son is sleeping in the guest room tonight, rather than his own room, but we've promised to get his "real" bed ready for tomorrow night. 

It's a steamy evening, but both kids' bedrooms have ceiling fans and multiple windows, so they shouldn't be too uncomfortable. Unfortunately, among the things that were inadvertently left behind at the old house were our toothbrushes and toothpaste, so bedtime prep was a bit altered. I had packed their backup toothbrushes, so they were able to brush without toothpaste, and I even remembered the mouthwash, so it wasn't too gross. We also didn't pack up the fridge and freezer, so a run back to the old house is in order tomorrow anyway. Which means that we get to have breakfast out again tomorrow, so that made the kids happy. They both went to bed with a few comments about it not quite feeling like home, but I reassured them that once we get settled in and their stuff is in their rooms and we get used to everything, it will feel like home very quickly. This is probably the biggest change they've ever gone through in their whole entire lives, so I wouldn't expect them to sail through without blinking. But they're both putting a good face on things, and a good night's sleep and a cooler day tomorrow should help the situation. 

As for me, I poured myself a glass of ice-cold pinot grigio (in a water goblet, because I haven't found the wine glasses yet), and I am sitting on the couch, looking at my window at a bunny, listening to the crickets and the quiet hum of the ceiling fan, wondering what delights are in store for tomorrow. 

It may still be new and unfamiliar, but it's my own little nest. I feel cozy. I feel safe. I am, truly, home.

Home. 

Photo A Day: Home

With a topic like “Home,” you are probably expecting a photo related to my house. Perhaps my front door, or the entire front of my house. Perhaps a photo of my living room, or my kitchen. Perhaps even a photo of my kids in the playroom or my husband in the office. But to me, the word “home” is not the same as the word “house.” My house is a specific place; it’s where I live, where I sleep, where I spend most of my time. But home can be anywhere that my family is. So last night, this was home.

In typical home fashion, not everyone was happy at that given moment. Two-thirds of the family is happy (actually, three-quarters; you can’t see the expression on my face, but since you can see that I have a buttered herb roll, calamari, and a cocktail in front of me, it’s a pretty safe assumption), which seems about right for any average moment.

And you know what? It’s okay that not everyone is perfectly happy. Life is not perfect; my family is not perfect. Any family that claims to be perfect all the time is either lying or deluded. To be honest, a family that is always happy would be a little creepy. If there’s always happiness, there’s no dissension; if there’s no dissention, there are no opinions; if there are no opinions, there is no thought. And if there’s no thought, there’s no point.

So I’ll take my imperfect home exactly as it is. Wherever we are, whatever we’re doing, we’re in it together: thinking together, forming opinions together, disagreeing together, being happy together. Most of the time, anyway. Because being together is what makes these people my home.

Home.

Lent Photo a Day: Place

“Place” is a pretty generic word, as words go. It means, simply, a location. A spot. A well-defined set of geographic coordinates. SomePLACE. AnyPLACE.

But if you add a possessive in front of it – your place, my place, his place, our place – it suddenly takes on a much different meaning, a meaning laden with values and implications and layers. To “put someone in his place” means to knock him down a peg. To deflate his ego. To humble him. To remind him that he’s not nearly as important as he thinks he is. Keeping someone “in his place” implies that person’s inferiority. “His place,” in this context, is a place of humility, subservience, frustration, and lowliness.

But adding a possessive to the word “place” can also imply exactly the opposite: To “find your place in the world” means to come into your own, to discover where you fit into the greater scheme of things, to reach your potential. It implies success, accomplishment, belonging, completion.

There’s yet another positive implication to some possessive uses of the word “place”: when “my place” refers to your home. “Come on over to my place.” “Welcome to my place.” “Check out my place!” The implications here are a sense of personal pride, a degree of territorialism, a sense of possessiveness in its most positive form. “My place” implies hospitality, welcome, comfort, and graciousness.

The hallmarks of my own personal “place” involve hospitality and comfort. My place is full of comfortable chairs, candlelight, flowers, classical music, good food and drink, and the laughter (and often the mess) of children. My place is often full of friends. It is always full of the love of family. My place is a haven from sorrow and a venue of joy. My place is full of memories. My place is full of potential. My place is full of cheerfulness. My place is full.

Place.

Welcome to My Happy Place

I looked out my window this morning and snow was falling. Again. STILL. I’m pretty sure that snow has fallen every single day for the past two weeks. I like snow, but I’m tired of it. I’m tired of shoveling it. I’m tired of driving through it. I’m tired of stepping over it. I’m tired of my trash can and recycling bin being buried under it. I’m tired of clearing it off my car. 

I’m going to my happy place. Want to join me?

The water park down the street is one of my happy places. When the weather is nice, we walk there (okay, usually we drive). Sometimes we meet some friends there. Sometimes we make new friends there. We all stretch our legs and breathe in the fresh air and bask in the sunshine. Where there is sun and water and small children, you can’t help but be happy.

Vacation is another of my happy places. Whether it’s camping in the woods with the whole family, taking in the sights of the Big Apple with my sweetheart, or even taking a day off to do something on my own away from the usual grind, a vacation rejuvenates me, refreshes me, and makes me happy.

Dressing up is my happy place. Whether it’s for a stage production, for a fancy evening on the town, or for a silly themed party, breaking out the hats and the nice dresses and the fabulous shoes and the good jewelry makes me happy. Especially when I’m on the arm of my equally well-dressed sweetheart.

 Visiting with family makes me happy. Whether it’s close family that we see often, or far-flung family whose visits are a special treat for their rarity, whether it’s family by blood or family by marriage, I love getting together with my family. My family is filled with funny, interesting, caring, wonderful people. They are not only my family, they are also my friends. My family, both immediate and extended, is my happy place.

And last, but certainly not least, my home is my happy place. I love my home because of what is in it, and because of who is in it. It’s is filled with memories and with love. It is where the story of my life up to now has led, and it is where my next chapter is beginning. How can that not be a happy place?

Home: The Land of the Familiar Stranger

Last week, my sister and I finalized the sale of the house that we grew up in. My parents bought that house before I was born. I lived there until I graduated from high school, I lived there most summers during college, and I visited and hung out there many weekends in my young adulthood. Even after my own home was established, that house was where the family always gathered to celebrate birthdays and holidays. Both my parents lived in that house until they died. I haven’t lived there full time in over 25 years, but it still felt like home, and it was a bit of a pang to hand over my keys to the stranger who would now be calling it home. It made me think a lot about my own home.

It’s never been easy for me to settle into a new home. I have to get to know new routines, new places, new neighbors, new routes. I have to get used to the layout of a new grocery store. I have to find a new hairdresser. I have to learn what days the trash and recycling are picked up. I have to figure out how to get to the nearest Walmart and Target and Kohl’s and JoAnn Fabrics and post office. I have to discover back roads to get everywhere I need to go to avoid the traffic. And I have to get to know a whole new batch of familiar strangers.

Many years ago, I read an article that talked about “familiar strangers.” What the author was referring to was people that you recognize but don’t really know. The young mom you see walking her baby in the stroller every morning as you leave for work. The guy in the green shorts who’s leaving the gym just as you get there. The teenage grocery clerk who always works register 4. The senior citizen who signs you in at the polls every election. Occasionally you might exchange a wave or even have a short conversation with a familiar stranger, but mainly they’re just people you recognize without knowing them.

Ever since reading that article, I have been aware of familiar strangers. And I have realized that familiar strangers are part of what make me feel at home. After living in my current home for over four years, I have gathered quite a list of familiar strangers:

The older gentleman who walks his golden retriever through our yard in the late afternoon.

The grocery store cashier who always offers my kids stickers.

The CVS clerk who comments on how much the kids have grown.

The Friendly’s waitresses who always bring the kids’ food right away.

The guy who collects the grocery carts from the parking lot who used to run to get my cart for me when the kids were babies.

Ed who owns the gas station.

The guy down the street who drives a shiny red pickup truck.

The woman around the corner whose cat, Fuzz, tries to let himself into our house.

The moms whose kids are in the gymnastics class right after my son’s class.

Our mailman with the gray ponytail.

The recycling truck driver who turns on the compactor right in front of our house when my son is watching.

The clerk at the seafood counter who takes a lobster out of the tank for my son to look at.

The bakery clerk who gives my kids broken cookies for free.

The security guard at the front desk at my husband’s office.

 And the list goes on and on. I don’t know any of their names (well, except Ed), but they are familiar and comforting and I would miss them if they were gone. They are part of what makes my home my home. I guess that means they’re not really strangers after all, are they?