My House

When we (a family of three) first moved into the house, it was like an old condemned factory: broken, dirty, and abandoned. The previous owners scratched and scraped but still had trouble paying the mortgage; then they disappeared out of sight, as if someone flipped a switch. The Gypsies left nothing behind except marks on the walls and stains in the carpet. In a panic to leave our predecessors left the door unlocked. What once was a smooth, green carpet in the front yard became a shaggy sign of emptiness. It wasn’t long until scrappers came and took whatever metal they could pry loose with their grubby fingers and a flat head screw driver. Not long after we moved in we received the news; a new addition to our brood was on the way. Another baby girl was coming. The hurricane of tasks came – never wavering – for duration equal to a summer Monarchs lifetime. Evidence of the chaos can be seen as we carefully make our way through the living room, kitchen and garage.

First, as one enters the house and passes the narrow threshold, a pile of junk mail that has yet to be dispatched to its ultimate destination teeters on a ledge like an enormous stack of mismatched playing cards.  The sound of the children playing is sweet but once combined with the toy orchestra that lay on the floor trumpeting away, it is the ultimate distraction. A cool mustiness takes over ones senses as one continues to move toward the fireplace. To some it may smell like a pumpkin pie but it is just a combination of the candles ushered away from the toddlers reach and the spilled juice from earlier that morning. Out of  toddlers reach means, the other side of the crotch high plastic fence, that divides the living area into two parts the baby owning the larger. I once attempted to leap the fence. Missing by a fraction of an inch I was deterred from further attempts to fly as I fell to the ground like a sack of rocks. The level of activity in this room demands you stay on your toes otherwise you may get lost in the madness that is quite literally the – living – room.

Moving past the living room is the kitchen. The kitchen is in a continual state of flux due to the relentless cycle of meals and various other feeding and snacks that are prepared daily. The aroma of the last meal lingers in the air¸ waiting for its replacement. It is a guard on watch, ever vigilant and never tiring. It may be the smell of a roast or chicken. On occasion it could be the enchantingly delicious smell of an apple pie that fills the air so thick you can taste the tartness on the middle of your tongue. A little further into the room you will find the island; originally intended to be a workspace that is now like a purgatory for all things that need to be put away. Under the random mountains of groceries, snacks and coupons one can easily detect there are spots that are greasy or sticky. To the left of the island there is the pile of dishes that grows magically like rabbits from a hat! Next to the sink there are various different cleaning supplies and towels that must be kept on hand in order for the lady of the house to perform her one handed juggling act. The kitchen is very much like the circus but less structured.

Moving through the kitchen we pass through a plain door and arrive at our final destination, the garage. At first glance it appears to be a torture chamber of sorts. This is where many household items have met their demise after great struggle. A large round tub contains the skeletons of light fixtures. Another box contains the odd bits of other once fully functioning appliances and electronics. The smell of stale cigar smoke and gasoline loom heavy over the rickety particle board wall units, with shelves stuffed full of leftover paints, whose colors include the full spectrum of a rainbow. One can almost taste the salty tears that were shed in battle to replace all of the amenities stolen by the scrappers: lights, faucets, ceiling fans, shower heads, dishwasher, and garbage disposal. The battle continues with tools scattered about, along with dirty rags and opened packages of hardware which now lay still like fallen soldiers. There have been many lost in this arena, this coliseum, but the resident gladiator must continue moving at all times lest he allow himself to be cornered by the lions.

The rewards for surviving in this time of turmoil are great. The heights of happiness easily match the depths of despair. The chaos will continue at least for another year or two. We have just received news. A baby girl is (once again) on the way.

(This story was originally written July 21, 2010)