A Walker in the Suburbs

I saw them on walks in Lexington, what we had when I was growing up, what I see in older houses still, but not as much anymore.

The picture window provides an unbroken look at the out-of-doors. No parceled glimpses of street or flower or tree. The picture window is open and unbroken.

Or at least mine was. It was the way I first looked out at the world, and I wonder if it accounts for the fact that I like to be out in it now.

Picture windows, I read, are non-opening windows that allow light into a room. Ah yes, that’s right. That window didn’t open.

What strikes me now about the picture window is its name, which doesn’t refer to panes or light but to framing. The picture window frames what it sees and presents it to us brightly and tidily.

The world in a frame. Almost.

To be alone in a house that once was full is to feel tender toward it, to show it greater care than usual. So you scrub the floor of the pantry closet and purge its contents. The kitchen faucet is now shiny and spotless, and the bedrooms are freshened by clean linens. This is not their usual state.

You are hoping that this is not the way you’ll always be. You’d like to have some of that old devil-may-care attitude, the one that helped you shrug off the untidiness and the disorganization. The years of toys ankle deep in the dining playroom, the piles of shoes by the front door.

Not the toys and the shoes themselves, mind you, just the ability to forgive them for standing between order and disorder.

It struck me yesterday that I am a house keeper. Not a housekeeper. The word break is crucial. I’m not a professional. I’m an amateur, one who comes to the task not from duty but from love.

The summer house is haphazard. Chairs moved from living room to deck depending upon weather and visitors. Beach towels draped over stools. Kitchen table cluttered because we’re eating outside.

I’m reminded of a time (a time that is still happening in many parts of the world) when a room had many uses: eating, sleeping, working. And only the time of day or position of a table would declare that room’s current purpose.

In this case, there was/is no parlor or den, no kitchen or dining room, no bedroom or sleeping porch. There was/is just one room. The living room — though it was not called that. People were too busy living in it to name it.

In summer, we’re always moving our chairs (and tables, too).  It’s delightfully disorienting. So the message, then, is this: Look carefully before you sit; make sure there’s something there before you do.