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For Sale

For Sale

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In my block of Folkstone, houses seldom change owners. The neighbors across the street and on each side of us have been here for decades, and many others for years. It’s the exact opposite of the transient neighborhood I thought I’d find outside D.C.  The government may change every four or eight years, but the suburbs where I live are pretty darn stable.

In the beginning, we were even more close-knit, with a pool party on the last day of school, caroling at Christmas, and birthday dinners throughout the year. That dwindled as the children grew up, but there are still occasional get-togethers and plenty of impromptu conversations at the corner or wherever dogs (and their owners) congregate. 
All of which is to say that when neighbors move away — the owners of this house are embarking today on their long-planned escape to Hawaii — a little bit of Folkstone leaves with them. 
The Green Chair

The Green Chair

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When the children were young and needed a time out, they were sent to an out-of-the-way place in a corner where they could cool down and ponder their misdeeds. We called it (in a fit of creativity!) … the green chair.

Not a green chair, but the Green Chair, a place of banishment and shame. Cue the Dragnet theme, add the moans and excuses of  misbehaving children. “But Mommy, I didn’t mean to  …” And factor in the exhaustion of a parent trying to write magazine articles while her young children played underfoot.

It’s been years since the green chair held a squabbling, out-of-control preschooler. Now it’s for a different type of confinement. It’s where I sit if I have a deadline or phone interview when I’m working at home; it’s my go-to spot for complete concentration.

I almost never scream and cry there, but I do get something done. In fact, if there wasn’t already a Green Chair … I would have to invent one.

Still Life with USB Cords

Still Life with USB Cords

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I was thinking today as I pulled a phone charger out of a drawer that I basically live on about one one-hundredth of the things I own. Heck, it may be more like one one-thousandth!

This phone charger was lying on top of a tangle of wires and cables that date back to my house’s Paleolithic Era. On the top are a few USB cables but underneath are old Walkman players, ancient cameras and … a pair of binoculars.  Ah, so that’s where the binoculars are.

It’s the same in my chest of drawers: Three pairs of wearable pants on top of five pairs that are too old or don’t fit. Plainly a purge is in order. But purging takes time.

I don’t get rid of stuff as quickly as I could because I think the stuff may some day come in handy. Those old jeans will be fine for painting and the Walkman could be pressed into service if my iPod breaks … and … well, you get the idea.

So the stuff remains, and I live on top of it. Makes me feel pretty silly, if you want to know the truth.

Paring Down?

Paring Down?

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As the weather warms, the mind turns to thoughts of freedom and lightness and paring down.

My friend Kara told me about her decluttering guru, a person who not only helps you sort through your stuff and get rid of it but who also helps you deal with the emotional pull of your keepsakes.

This is a problem of affluence, right, that we should be so buried in our stuff, so loathe to part with it, that we must hire someone to tell us to throw it away?

Here’s the thing, though: I believe enough in this service, and in this person, that I’m afraid to seek her out. What if she actually does what she says? Am I ready to sift through the girls’ schoolwork from 2002? Or the boxes of old letters and birthday and graduation cards?

Motivation is what matters here. I want the final product — the fine, unfettered feeling — but I’m not ready to do what it takes to get there. So until then, it’s a full closet, full garage, full house.

Tick Tock

Tick Tock

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The house is as quiet as my house can be, which means that in addition to the blood rushing through my ears I’m also listening to the twitter of parakeets and the steady tick-tock of the cuckoo clock.

The “cuckoo” part of the clock has been long since been disabled, but the ticking mechanism remains. The metronomic beat of this timepiece is the soundtrack of my life.

On the rare day when the clock’s not wound, the stillness is deafening. I can hardly hear myself think.

Which raises the question: What has all this ticking done to my brain? Has it weathered it with pockmarks? Or has it smoothed and polished it, eroding those pesky irregularities that often stand in for real thought?

Holiday House

Holiday House

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Yesterday I met my brother for lunch at the local mega-mall. It was wonderful to see him — but I made quick work of the venue, got in and out as quickly as I could. More shopping? I don’t think so.

Instead,  I made my way quickly back here, where I could bounce on the trampoline and do a little yard work in the suddenly 60-degree temps. As the day darkened, I came inside to bask in the tree and the bowl of red glass apples that catch the light and transform it.

These holiday sights soothe the soul; the holiday occupations do, too. I spent a couple of hours last night turning the last of the cookie dough into crispy, sugared wreaths, bells and angels.

It’s all part of the holiday house. I want to keep it here as long as possible.

Clean House

Clean House

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Some days start slowly and quietly, sipping tea while writing a post. Others start with a  brisk walk, or an early getaway to the office to beat the crowds on Metro.

Most days don’t start with three strangers scouring my bathroom.

But that’s how the day has started. Little time for rumination. It’s all about action now, and not forgetting what I was doing before I went to add an item to the master list for hundredth time.

Still, it’s a wonderful thing, having other people clean your house. I could get used to it.

Touch-Up

Touch-Up

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In the last couple of weeks I’ve been scraping, sanding and painting the deck furniture. It’s not fun, but it can take on a Zen-like rhythm after a while. Especially the painting. Brush in hand, heat building on a June morning, air buzzing with insect sounds, a lone frog in the background.

I wield the brush as lightly as possible in rubber-gloved hand. The first coat is thick, too thick. The second coat is semi-gloss — ah, much smoother — and shinier, too.

And it was the semi-gloss that I used yesterday to do the touch-ups. Which is, I have to say, my favorite part of the endeavor: inspecting, looking at the whole, spotting the little places that can be improved, and … improving them.

Maybe it’s satisfying because it’s a chance so seldom afforded us in life — this ability to go back and tweak ever-so-slightly the choices we made — just enough to make a difference.

Puttering

Puttering

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Woke up this morning after more sleep than usual and immediately started puttering. I emptied the garbage. I watered the plants. I made Celia a pot of coffee.

Then I went outside. I moved the begonias. I caught an errant strand of climbing rose, looped a green wire around it and attached it to a sister branch.

I was about ready to sweep the deck when I realized this wasn’t a Saturday but a weekday, and while I wasn’t planning to go in early today because of after-work plans, I at least had to get there by 9!

So I ran upstairs and started getting ready, but not without a wistful backward glance at all the little chores that can be slowly checked off during a morning of puttering.

Empty Room

Empty Room

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Suzanne and Appolinaire moved out over the weekend. They left a stuffed-full center-hall colonial for a small blue house on a steep hill in Arlington. Walk up their sidewalk a few yards, crane your neck, whip out your binoculars — and you can see the Washington Monument. It’s that close to the city.

Meanwhile, in the outer ‘burbs, there’s an empty room. It’s been empty before, of course, while Suzanne lived in Africa for three-and-a-half years. But now she’s married, and — unless they’re between houses, as they were these last three months — they won’t be moving back.

It’s all as it’s supposed to be, and I’m delighted they’re settling into their new place.

It’s just that there’s this empty room — its exposed ticking mattress cover; the blank spots on the wall where the Les Mis poster used to be; the gaps in the book shelf. Even the cello is gone.

I’ll have to get used to it, that’s all.