Home Is...

It was the first time our children, Tucker and Casey, had seen the house Dave and I were close to buying.  At ages ten and seven, our kids had lived their lives on a school campus, eating most meals in a cafeteria with other kids and their families, having the run of a gym, playground, and athletic fields, even tubing downstream when the creek became a rushing river during Hurricane Gloria.  Life was good. 

Still, this house was pretty cool.  

We’d toured the interior, and the kids had scoped out the rooms that would be theirs.  We’d stood, all four of us, in the vast fireplace that had been the heart of this home in the eighteenth century.  And then, we’d headed outside to explore the woods-encircled yard.

Dave and I studied the roof, which we knew we’d have to replace.  An unwelcome expense, but then we’d be set for the next twenty-five years.  A lifetime!  The kids raced around, checking out the barn, playhouse, old well, and the shed built around a gnarled apple tree.  

When Tuck spotted a low-hanging dogwood branch, he leapt up and grabbed it to swing.  With a startling snap, the branch split.  Tuck landed on his feet, rattled but unhurt, as Dave and I looked at each other wide-eyed.  We hadn’t bought the place yet and already we were breaking things.

Dave found a strong, straight cedar limb near the edge of the woods.  We propped the sagging branch back into position and sheepishly headed to the car. 

Twenty-seven years later, that cracked branch is still sprouting a few limp leaves come spring.  Twenty-seven years later, and we’ve re-shingled the roof again.  Twenty-seven years later, Tucker is 37, and Casey, 34: both are married, and Tucker has a son.  Both recently purchased their own homes.  It’s not like I wonder where the time has gone: so many stories, milestones, and memories have filled those twenty-seven years… Still...  Yeah.  Where has the time gone?  

The other night, the phone rang around 10:00, late for a phone call.  Luckily, I didn’t glance at the clock or I would have panicked.  An accident?  A death?   No, thank god.  It was Casey, running another load of bins and boxes from her apartment to the new house.   “Mom.  I just had a thought.  You were only a few years older than me when you bought the house in Easton.  And you already had two kids!  That is crazy pants!”

It is crazy pants.  Casey and Tucker are such grown-ups, more than I am it seems sometimes.  But it is amazing to think of all the years, all the living, all the change that has brought me from Casey’s age to 64, that has brought my kids from those scampering little ones to the wonderful adults they have become.

After bringing over four carloads of boxes on Casey and PJ’s second night in their new house, we sat on the rug on the floor (no furniture yet) in the newly painted “NYPD Blue” living room sipping celebratory Proseccos.  It was easy to conjure myself at their age, standing in our foyer when we were moving in 1990, gazing at bare walls... and our future.  My thirty-eight year old self felt an empathetic tug of nostalgia for the former owner as I pictured him standing where I was, giving a sweeping look into the empty rooms before closing the door behind him for the last time.  He had lived in the house with his wife and daughter for forty-five years.

Every so often, I broach the idea of selling our house to move into something smaller, something within walking distance to town and biking distance to a beach.  I’m trying to be practical.  A number of friends have told me, “you want to move out by the time you’re 70, when you still have the energy.”  70!  And yet, incredibly, that’s not so far off. 

I love the idea of a walking, biking life, but I wish I could take this house with me. With its porches, huge fireplace, and decrepit, finally dying, dogwood, it is home.  I don’t want to abandon it. What if someone who doesn’t appreciate its history buys it?  Someone who sees it as old, rather than venerable?  Someone who thinks it would be fine to rip up the wide-plank floors and wrench out the massive beams?  Omigod.  I can't stand to think of it.  This house is more than a building; it’s an embracing friend, and we have been its charges as well as its stewards.  Over its 235 years, it has been infused with spirit: ours, those who have gone before us, its own.  Fact is, it actually is home to some spirits, but that’s another story.

 For now, moving is off the table. Last time I mentioned the idea to Dave, he shook his head and said, “Have to tell you, Lea, I can’t see myself leaving this house anytime soon.  I’m only leaving this place in a box.”  Oh.  That’s pretty clear.  Good.  I can settle in, love my house, and for now, not worry about being practical.  This house is perfect for visits from grandchildren, the perfect place for grandchildren to remember…

Not So Clever After All

“Where do babies come from?” All parents dread that question. Dave and I, however, had thought we’d been oh-so-clever in avoiding it by conveying the essentials to our son Tucker with the help of a cooperative guinea pig (a real one) and appropriate TV viewing.

From the time Tucker was two, Sunday night was “bug night,” our family’s name for channel Thirteen’s show “Nature.” Through the talents of PBS videographers, Tuck had witnessed any number of mating rituals and births. Calmly and honestly, Dave and I answered every question our little boy asked. It was easy when the subject matter was zebras and elk. While he developed an irrational fear about deer shedding their antlers and could not even look at a picture of a deer without tears, Tucker was relaxed regarding reproduction.

A brief confusion arose when we acquired a pregnant guinea pig. At the time of purchase, we had no idea that Scratchy was female, much less pregnant. We thought she was simply putting on weight until we began to feel the babies moving inside her.

It was a wonderful, small miracle, actually, affording an unexpected experience in animal families as well as an opportunity for further sex education. Tucker wondered, wisely, “How can she have babies without a daddy?”

Dave explained that Scratchy must have mated while she was still living at the pet store. He re-visited the facts of anatomy and process and Tucker was satisfied, comfortable with his knowledge.

What good parents! We congratulated ourselves on brilliantly sparing ourselves and our son embarrassing pre-teen discussions about sex. Initiation to the topic did not go as smoothly for our daughter, Casey.

She was only five when she returned from a playdate, tearful and anxious.

“What is it, sweetie? What’s wrong?“ I asked.

“I. Can’t. Talk. About. It,” she managed to blurt, shaking, between sobs.

She fled to her room and closed the door. I could hear her weeping piteously.

I knew the friends with whom she’d spent the day and so had no major concerns about my daughter’s well-being, but what might have caused such distress?

I entered her room and found her prone on the bed. Her long brown hair clung in sodden wisps to her flushed, tear-wet cheeks. I rubbed her back and murmured soothing words. Finally she wailed, “Courtney told me how babies are made! I’d finally decided that I wanted a baby even though it would hurt, but I’m not going to do what she said!”

Oh dear. What could I say? It’s not too bad once you get used to it? Someday you’ll like it? No. Clearly that was the wrong tack. I stuck to hugs and a vague “It’s okay, precious” kind of approach.

Over the next three days, Casey’s crying bouts lessened, but her concerns did not. “I don’t want to think of my pretty mommy doing that. What if I decide I do want a baby, but no one loves me enough to do that?” It was heart-wrenching to witness her loss of innocence, to see her struggle for acceptance of this, to her, gruesome fact of life.

Tucker, meanwhile, was neither moved nor curious about Casey’s tears. She was a bit of a crybaby in those days and for a time, he didn’t notice anything all that unusual. Eventually though, days had passed and still his little sister was morose.

“What’s the matter with Casey?” he said, finally.

I felt no qualms in responding. Tucker already had all the answers.

“One of Casey’s friends told her about mating,” I said.

“Oh.” He nodded, satisfied. But only briefly. He looked at me, his brow furrowed, eyes puzzled. “But why’s she so upset?”

“She doesn’t like to think about Mommy and Daddy doing it.”

His eyes grew wide. I did not see it coming. He said, “You mean humans do it too?!”