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Category: house

Lighting One Candle

Lighting One Candle

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It’s a strange sensation to lose electrical power in the middle of the night. Already dark and quiet, it might almost pass unnoticed. But I happened to wake at 4 a.m., perhaps missing the whir of the fan. When I glimpsed my darkened bedside clock, the silence suddenly made sense.

It was not just the deprivation of darkness, then, but a deeper lacking. Did I feel it somehow, drifting as we were without power through the night? I think so. My own small reading light seemed an insufficient candle to counter all that darkness. It gave me light enough to read by, though, and the evening was cool enough that I felt drowsy again before long.

Just as I began to drift off, a large truck chugged its way down the street. It was the power company. They were on it. I fell back to sleep lulled by the purr of the big truck’s engine.

This Old Kitchen

This Old Kitchen

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The wallpaper is original, the cabinets, too. The countertop is Formica and the appliances don’t match. Storage is minimal and opening the refrigerator door blocks off the entire room.

Yet, more than 11, 000 meals have flowed from this room and countless family conversations have occurred in it. It’s been the scene of celebration, jubilation and consternation.

It was put through its paces this weekend, with all the meals prepared, dishes washed and leftovers crammed into any fridge nook and cranny I could find. And of course with the girls together making coffee, slicing fruit — and hanging out.

Though we took a few “formal” family shots over the weekend, it’s candid ones like these that I appreciate the most. They capture the allure of the kitchen, the craziness of it, the love and laughter it has known.

Will we ever renovate it? I doubt it. But if we do, I hope all the good vibes remain.

Grandfather Clock

Grandfather Clock

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It was almost dark when the four large boxes arrived. We knew they were on their way, and Tom was eagerly awaiting them. The boxes held a grandfather clock that’s been in his family for years. It sat in the hallway of the house where he was raised, then his sister Ginna took good care of it for more than a decade, and now, through her generosity, it sits in our living room.

So many memories of this clock, the hall it graced in the house in Indianapolis, the sights it has seen, the wonderful family that grew up around it.

There was some debate about where to put it, but the spot where it landed (or maybe a few more inches to the right!) makes it seem as if it always was there.

The arrival of such a timepiece, such a legacy, is big news indeed, and I’m sure I’ll have more to say about it in posts to come. But I wanted to welcome it today — and note that although it hasn’t run in years, it was set up at 9 p.m. on the nose. Which is exactly the hour it marks.

Sorting Day

Sorting Day

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Yesterday was cool and rainy, the perfect day to sort through drawers and throw away receipts. It began with a search for my national parks pass (not yet found), but continued long beyond that.

I amassed a pile of credit card receipts and tossed all but 2019’s. Along the way, I found a plethora of pool passes, a few expired gift cards and some stray Girl Scout badges, never sewn onto sashes.

It was, on the whole, a calm and meditative practice, sorting through old eyeglass holders, foreign currency and stray sewing kits — the kind of odd conglomeration that can only accumulate over time.

At the bottom of one drawer was a checkbook from Chemical Bank in New York. Haven’t heard about them in a while. No wonder. They merged with Chase in 1996.

It was that kind of afternoon.

Tub Envy

Tub Envy

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You could call it house envy, or even bathroom envy. I prefer to call it tub envy. It’s what I felt when I toured our neighbor’s home during Saturday’s open house.  Their house is directly across the street, and though I had been in it off and on through the years, I had never seen it without furniture and with all its improvements showcased.

The house began its life identical to this one, but the previous owners, Brian and Kathy (who were along for Saturday’s tour), bumped out both the front and the back. This elongated the entrance hall, straightened out the stairway and enlarged the kitchen, allowing for both an island and a door where a window used to be — all lovely additions.

It was the “new” owners, John and Jill (who lived there 14 years, but “new” in Folkstone terms), who re-did the bathrooms and installed the tub-to-die-for. This photo doesn’t do it justice; it fails to capture the length and depth of it, the way the light pours in through the windows. I didn’t climb into the tub (though I was tempted!) but I could tell that you’d be able to soak in there and look at the tree branches waving in the wind or at clouds scudding across the sky.

So even though I coveted the empty basement with the picture window, the tall kitchen cabinets, the cheerful tile backsplash and countless other features, it’s the tub I want the most.

Tub envy. I’m not proud of it. But I have it something fierce.

The Feeling of Clean

The Feeling of Clean

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The urge to spring clean is a real one, I think. As nature renews itself outside, there’s a strong need to spruce things up inside, to scrub and pound, to throw open the windows, to air things out.

The other day I washed bed linens, right down to the mattress casings. I dusted and vacuumed in a more deep-cleaning way than usual. As I fell asleep last night under a freshly laundered duvet cover, I pondered the feeling of clean.

There seems to be a tightness to it, as if fibers loosened over time have suddenly been compressed again, are back to their normal connections and boundaries. And there’s a lightness to it, too. Those compressed fibers take up less room.

The feeling of clean should motivate me to scrub and scour more often than I do. But, alas, it must always compete with the feeling of too-much-to-do.

Birds, Waking

Birds, Waking

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The birds wake to the crescendo of the kettle boiling. It is one of those sounds they have come to know means humans are nearby. They also thrill to the toilet flushing and the hall door squeaking.

What they love best, though, is the sound of water running. Does it remind them of some avian past when their relatives roosted near brooks and springs so they could sip small drops in that way birds do, a way that is more of a splash than a drink?

Or do they simply love the sound of it best, as I prefer Brahms and Mendelssohn? I’ll never know, of course. But I do know that I thrill to the sound of their waking, to the warbling and the rustling, to the   peeps and songs of these feathered creatures, so small, so delicate, so alive in every way.

Interior Decorating

Interior Decorating

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I don’t take naturally to interior decorating. I have no flair for it, no natural aptitude. I know what I like, which for lack of a better term I’ll call Old World Cozy, but this is not an easy vision to articulate.

A recent burst of decorating energy has propelled me online and into furniture stores, where I wander bewildered among the couches, tables and chairs. The problem with making one decision is the many others that follow. 
If we buy this couch, must we buy the chair? And the ottoman? And what about end tables and lamps?  Ah, yes, the list is endless. 
Which is why … sometimes … I do nothing at all.


(Photo shot in a furniture store showroom which shall remain nameless.)
To Go Through

To Go Through

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A standing joke in my parents’ house was the phrase “To Go Through” scribbled in marker across the top of a cardboard box. It meant a reprieve for my mother, a postponement of the not-always inevitable; for my dad it meant more clutter.

Mom wasn’t a hoarder, but she never saw a box she couldn’t fill. And she didn’t fill them in an organized way. They were stuffed hurriedly, before a party or the arrival of visitors, and pell-mell, with a jumble of newspapers, junk mail and the occasional treasure — an envelope of photos or handwritten note.

Though Mom did have time in later years to go through some of these boxes, to sort and toss (though never as much of the latter as Dad would have liked), there were still plenty of these “to go through” boxes when she and Dad were both gone.

I went through a few of them last weekend. There were birthday cards, a spool of gold thread, the front page of the Lexington Herald-Leader with the banner headline “Clinton Impeached.” There were notebooks and ledgers and an ancient bill from my college infirmary when I had strep throat my senior year.

Did these discoveries “spark joy”? Sometimes. More often, they sparked tears. But after a couple of hours I had winnowed the contents of two boxes into one. I had “gone through.” And that was good enough for me.

Walking on Air

Walking on Air

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I have a new walking companion, always willing to take a stroll or a hike. She lives in the basement—and I have no idea what she does in her hours off.

It’s mind-altering to have her here. It means I can walk early in the morning or late at night. It means I can walk forward or (ouch!) backward. It means I can walk up hills or take the straightaway; can push hard or take a more leisurely approach.

She won’t stand in the way of an outside amble, but she’s ready to go in any weather.

Using my new elliptical—it’s like walking on air!