Our Old House.
We used to live in the city. Well, not in the city exactly, but in an inner, inner, inner ring suburb. Not even a suburb really; it was a cool, diverse neighborhood that was three blocks away from the city. It was “I-don’t-have-to-worry-about-sending-my-kids-to-crappy-schools-but-I-can-still-walk-to-the-bakery” cool. The lynchpin was that we had an alley garage. According to the rules, you get an automatic, no questions asked pass to say that you live in the city, if you have to walk outside to get from your garage to your house. Free standing garage? You’re urban.
Our house was vibey and old, which we loved. In the winter, if you stood close enough to any of the windows, you would feel yourself being sucked outside, along with the rest of the warm air that our furnace faithfully produced like a first-born child who just wants to get it right. In a summer thunderstorm, those windows rattled so violently that it actually frightened me, more than once. There was a basement that we referred to it as the dungeon. No matter what the temperature was in the rest of the house, it was always 47 degrees in the basement. Judging by the number of cobwebs that sprung up in every corner and crevice, no matter how often we knocked them down, you’d think it was where older, experienced spiders taught fledgling spiders their craft.
Part of its vibe was that it smelled like your grandma. I don’t mean it smelled like apple pies and cinnamon. It was more like that friend with slightly bad breath, but you never say anything because you like him too much and it doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things. It’s just part of him. But it’s not like you don’t notice.
We had crazy neighbors. On our first night in the house, one of them came over, clad in overalls and a bike helmet, to ask us if we knew that our house was, in fact, haunted. An elderly woman named Rose, who was well into her eighties, made inappropriate and repeatedly suggestive comments about my body. There was a stay-at-home dad who scowled at me every single time I passed his house, no matter how much I tried to earn his approval. But we had nice neighbors, too. One couple didn’t even care when, after showing us their great-grandmother’s handmade quilt, our six-month old son promptly sprayed it with projectile vomit.
And then there was the shrub in the back yard. I still don’t know what it began as, but when we lived there, it resembled thinning hair that has been allowed to grow too long. And it grew faster than that itchy spot on your back. Down a little! Now up a little. Up a little. UP a little! That shrub was your dad’s bad comb-over. Super embarrassing, it won’t go away on its own, and you don’t quite know what to say about it.
But man, we loved that house. When you walked into it, it was like being hugged by your favorite aunt, the one who knew to call you Steve instead of Stevie before anyone else did. At the end of a hard day, walking the stairs up to our bedroom, every creak and groan from those steps seemed to whisper, “Me, too.” And there was a tulip that came up in the front yard every spring, only for a week or two. That tulip was hope incarnate.
I want to be that kind of house. I want to embrace all of the embarrassing, hilarious, and inadequate parts of me, instead of constantly dreaming of the remodel. I want to be at peace with my old, drafty windows, my creaky floors, and my cobwebs.
I just don't want to have to walk outside from my garage to my house.
Our house was vibey and old, which we loved. In the winter, if you stood close enough to any of the windows, you would feel yourself being sucked outside, along with the rest of the warm air that our furnace faithfully produced like a first-born child who just wants to get it right. In a summer thunderstorm, those windows rattled so violently that it actually frightened me, more than once. There was a basement that we referred to it as the dungeon. No matter what the temperature was in the rest of the house, it was always 47 degrees in the basement. Judging by the number of cobwebs that sprung up in every corner and crevice, no matter how often we knocked them down, you’d think it was where older, experienced spiders taught fledgling spiders their craft.
Part of its vibe was that it smelled like your grandma. I don’t mean it smelled like apple pies and cinnamon. It was more like that friend with slightly bad breath, but you never say anything because you like him too much and it doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things. It’s just part of him. But it’s not like you don’t notice.
We had crazy neighbors. On our first night in the house, one of them came over, clad in overalls and a bike helmet, to ask us if we knew that our house was, in fact, haunted. An elderly woman named Rose, who was well into her eighties, made inappropriate and repeatedly suggestive comments about my body. There was a stay-at-home dad who scowled at me every single time I passed his house, no matter how much I tried to earn his approval. But we had nice neighbors, too. One couple didn’t even care when, after showing us their great-grandmother’s handmade quilt, our six-month old son promptly sprayed it with projectile vomit.
And then there was the shrub in the back yard. I still don’t know what it began as, but when we lived there, it resembled thinning hair that has been allowed to grow too long. And it grew faster than that itchy spot on your back. Down a little! Now up a little. Up a little. UP a little! That shrub was your dad’s bad comb-over. Super embarrassing, it won’t go away on its own, and you don’t quite know what to say about it.
But man, we loved that house. When you walked into it, it was like being hugged by your favorite aunt, the one who knew to call you Steve instead of Stevie before anyone else did. At the end of a hard day, walking the stairs up to our bedroom, every creak and groan from those steps seemed to whisper, “Me, too.” And there was a tulip that came up in the front yard every spring, only for a week or two. That tulip was hope incarnate.
I want to be that kind of house. I want to embrace all of the embarrassing, hilarious, and inadequate parts of me, instead of constantly dreaming of the remodel. I want to be at peace with my old, drafty windows, my creaky floors, and my cobwebs.
I just don't want to have to walk outside from my garage to my house.
posted by Steve W. at 8:51 AM
4 Comments:
One year & four months later, I STILL love (and get a lot out of) reading your posts. Welcome back!
Please keep writing!
hope this helps you. I had awful bad breath and tonsil stones. thank god my only friend told me to check Oraltech Labs advice as it got rid of her bad breath and her post nasal drip. I've been following Oraltech Labs advice for about 4 months now and I feel much better, also at work people are not avoiding me anymore so it seems to have cured my bad breath as well, so good luck. Jenny NY
Nin Jiom Pei Pa Koa (www.geocities.jp/ninjiom_hong_kong/index_e.htm) may be another solution to itchy throat. i know a lot of people use it, its also non alcoholic, though it's effectiveness is not as good as alcohol based cough medicine, but it's still good to use on not so serious itchy throat. Hope you are getting well soon!!!
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