We’re in the process of renovating our kitchen. I blame HGTV. My wife watches all those home improvement shows and thinks it’s easy to just blow out a wall or three, tear out drywall and plaster, and reroute electric and HVAC and plumbing. All of which are in progress right now.
To be clear, when I say “we” are in the process of renovating our kitchen, I’m talking about a sensible division of labor: people who actually know what they’re doing are doing the heavy lifting, and we’re writing a fat check.
This stuff scares me… and I’m not just talking about the exposed electrical wires.
I’m afraid that we’re messing with the home’s “aura.”
Our house was built in 1941. It’s had nearly 80 years to accumulate ghosts. Tearing out a wall might unleash the hounds of hell…
… or worse yet, the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man.
But we moved in 20 years ago, and haven’t done much at all to the kitchen. It was overdue for a “reboot.” And if “Saved by the Bell” can do it, by gosh, so can we!
Once the work crew started tearing things up on “demo day” (thanks HGTV, for that term of endearment) we could see that the previous owner had autographed his updates, which were done waaaay back in 1992.
The other thing that’s revealed in the process is that houses are really just “sticks and bricks.”
And just because things have “always been this way” in your tenure doesn’t mean that they’ve really always been that way. Our sunroom has always been a sunroom to us, but it used to be an outdoor porch. The wall opening between that room and the kitchen used to be a window. Now it’s going to be an entryway. We’re repositioning the stove… but once some of the ceiling was torn down, you can see that the stove actually used to be in that same spot!
A house is pliable. Changing things up doesn’t make it any less of a home. Unless you take out a load-bearing wall! (Don’t worry, we didn’t do that.)
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go wash some dishes in the utility sink by the washing machine in our basement. I can’t wait until the reno is over.
When I three years old, my mom passed away. When I was six, my dad packed up his four kids (ages 9, 8, 6 and 4) and moved us from uber-urban Jersey City, New Jersey to really rural Hagarville, Arkansas. (Population: 300 if you count the cows.)
I like to call it a “reverse Beverly Hillbillies.” (Culturally, anyway… we never were rich.) I guess my dad wanted to get a fresh start of sorts.
I vividly remember the first day we went to our new home in Arkansas. The property was bordered on one side by a dirt road, and on another side by a cow pasture. There was a propane tank near the driveway… I thought it was a submarine. I got burrs in my socks from walking in the ankle-high weeds, and had no idea what they were. In some ways, I felt like I’d landed on another planet.
We gradually adjusted… I adopted the University of Arkansas Razorbacks as my college sports team, and I even had a slight Arkansas drawl when I moved away to go to college in Cincinnati.
But the “Land of Opportunity” never quite felt like home, mainly because we were “Yankees” and had no relatives within 600 miles in a place where so many of the ties that bind have to do with close kinfolk.
However, it was a good place for four motherless kids to grow up. We could be what I like to call “free range children.” Hiking, biking, fishing… exploring the world without adult supervision and learning more about self-reliance.
I’ve only been back once since 1985. Dad’s long gone, my siblings live elsewhere, and the house is slowly being reclaimed by nature (watch out for the burrs!). “There is no there there” as Gertrude Stein famously said.
But I still have a soft spot in my heart for The Natural State. It’s where I went from a boy to a… er, boyish man (and not a “Mannish Boy”).
So when I heard a new tune called “Arkansas” by Chris Stapleton, I got excited. Especially because it rocks.
When I worked as a lifeguard for a couple summers at the city pool in Morrilton, Arkansas, the city employee who managed the pool would switch the radio station playing on the P.A. system from rock to country… and I’d raise holy hell. I remember him telling me “when you get older, you’re gonna like country music.” I still don’t care for mainstream country music (a.k.a. “bro country”) at all, but Stapleton’s not mainstream.
“Arkansas” is on Chris’ new release, which is really good from start to finish. The album is called Starting Over. That reminds me of Arkansas too.
Our youngest kid started his first real job this week. (I don’t count the weekly community newpaper route he had for a couple of years, because a parent had to drive him around for that.) He’s 15 and a half now, and he’s working at a restaurant. The same restaurant where his 17-year-old sister works. Oh, and his 19-year-old brother… and his 20-year-old brother as well.
Yes, we’ve got a real pizza parlor pipeline going on. (Uh, not like the hoax one in D.C.) Our oldest even serves as the shift manager a couple of nights a week.
My kids are all gainfully employed. I love it! (So does my wallet!)
Ramundo’s is about five blocks from our house — easy walking distance (although our kids rarely walk it). The business is still doing well during the pandemic (more deliveries, less dine-in), the owners are great folks and they treat their employees well. (“They’re making tons of dough!” #DadJoke)
There’s only one problem with this pizza payroll situation: some of the pizza slices that are left over at the end of the shift make their way into our house… and into my belly.
I suppose packing on a few extra pizza pounds is a small price to pay for having someone else pay my kids.
My kids started school this week – two in college, and two in high school. Everyone’s “remote learning.”
I’ve been buried in my basement for five months now, doing the ol’ “working from home” thing during the pandemic. It’s boring. It’s monotonous. It’s drudgery. (Don’t get me wrong, I do feel fortunate to still have a gig in a cratered economy.) But yesterday when I went upstairs and saw three of my kids staring at computer screens, my heart sank. They looked like mini-versions of me, zoning out during a boring meeting.
It’s one thing for an old man like me to be a Zoom Zombie for work. But school should be more lively, and more life-affirming. Their days should be filled with laughter, broken lockers, lunchtime sandwich swaps, PE in a gym with a freshly refinished floor, soccer practice, juvenile jokes (they still get those at home). They should be passing notes in class, and passing their friends in the hallway.
I know (or at least I hope and pray) that this is a temporary situation. And it’s the right call for their physical health. But this is making them old before their time.
Your thought for the day… nay, thought for a lifetime for any parent, comes from cellist, composer, and conductor, Pablo Casals:
“Each second we live in a new and unique moment of the universe, a moment that never was before and will never be again. And what do we teach our children in school? We teach them that two and two make four, and that Paris is the capital of France. When will we also teach them what they are? We should say to each of them: Do you know what you are? You are a marvel. You are unique. In all of the world there is no other child exactly like you. In the millions of years that have passed there has never been another child like you… You may become a Shakespeare, a Michelangelo, a Beethoven. You have the capacity for anything. Yes, you are a marvel. And when you grow up, can you then harm another who is like you, a marvel? You must cherish one another. You must work—we must all work—to make this world worthy of its children.”
Can it truly be possible that my baby girl is turning 17 today?
It can’t be. The clock is a liar. The calendar is a thief.
And yet, Leah is 17 today. We’re a week and a half away from the 4th of July, but she’s already made her Declaration of Independence. She’s moved beyond parental obedience… the best we can hope for now is “guidance” as she carves out her own space in the universe.
I hope she remains as kind, caring and empathetic as she’s always been. I hope the sassiness that’s sometimes a mild affront to our current parental sensibilities (insert eyeroll here) morphs into resilience and grit and a healthy dose of skepticism.
I can’t wait to wish her a happy birthday… when she arises at the crack of 3 p.m. (Oh, to be a teen again!)