We sat atop the cemetery knoll, my old friend and I, staring in disbelief at the newly made grave. “What am I going to do, Jenny?” I sobbed, crumpling against her shoulder. “What am I going to do?”
I was 34-years-old and just widowed with a 3 ½ -year-old child, Zeke. I felt as if someone had ripped my arm off and beaten me over the head with it. And I had this horrible aching sense of suddenly not belonging anywhere, not even in my own home. The house that Tim and I had bought prior to our marriage – a circa 1918 house that I had loved for its quirks, even while he’d complained about its smallness – had, overnight, become a desolate No-Man’s Land, and I was wandering around in it like one of those shell-shocked WWI soldiers in a Hemingway novel.
Still, Zeke and I had to live somewhere. So I went over the checklist that we’d been working on before Tim’s car accident. We’d already contracted people to do the painting and wallpapering, so I went ahead with scheduling those things. My oldest brother finished up the enclosed front porch, putting up the last few pieces of tobacco-barn wood paneling that Tim hadn’t gotten to. I cleaned up the rest of the old beadboard wainscoting and painted the trim in the kitchen.
Better, I thought once those things had been completed, but it’s still not enough. I moved my bedroom up to the third floor, where Tim’s absence would, I told myself, not haunt me so deeply. I took down the mini-blinds and put lace panels in their place, hoping to let the light in but, at the same time, maintain some privacy. I hired a carpenter to build a new stair railing, extra kitchen cabinets, and covers for the old-fashioned stand-up radiators.
Nice, I said to myself. But, in my heart of hearts, I knew I’d been happier when the whole house was still a work in progress with barely any wallpaper up and what Tim had scathingly called “garbage-bag-brown paint” in the kitchen. When he’d been there with us, joking and moving through the various projects with that quicksilver energy of his.
I kept working on the house, basically doing whatever I could to make both the house and myself feel at ease with one another again. Then, one morning, a good 5 ½ years after Tim’s death, I was painting the kitchen – again – when the truth came to me. Not with any fanfare but quietly and kindly, like an old friend waiting for just the right moment to speak her mind. It’s time, isn’t it? Truth said, pulling up one of the Hitchcock chairs that I had so carefully saved up for early in my marriage.
Yes, I said, pausing in mid-brushstroke, it really is. I don’t want to be here anymore. It's hard admitting that you've fallen out of love, whether it's with a person or a place.
I found a realtor – or, rather, a realtor found me. Lori showed up at my back door one day, canvassing the neighborhood for prospective sellers. And I found a house – or, I should say, the house, like Lori, found me. Early one Sunday afternoon, I was scanning the real estate section in the paper when one house in particular caught my eye. The picture showed a white
Cod house in the town where Tim and I had grown up. It was very similar to the one I’d grown up
in and very much within my price range.
I told the man I was dating – a letter carrier who happened to work in the same town as the
Cape – about my find.
There was silence, followed by a chuckle. “That’s the fourth house on my route,” he informed
me, adding thoughtfully, “I could make it the last house on my route,
though…Would the postman have to ring twice?”
By the end of the week, I was standing in the
Cape’s wide sunny living room, and I knew, without
knowing how I knew, that I had come
home. I could see us sitting in this
living room, my grandmother’s black cat andirons presiding over this hearth as
they had over the great stone hearth in her old farmhouse (there’d been no
fireplace in our 1918 house) – could see Zeke playing in the finished-off
section of the basement on rainy days.
There were enough trees on the property to satisfy my tree-worshipping
heart and an inexplicable but strong feeling that the house – which had been
neglected by its current owners -- had been waiting for us.
Oddly enough, my father-in-law, pragmatic soul that he was, wrote me a letter that underscored this feeling. He was living out in
now, but, of
course, remembered the neighborhood well.
“There was one house that always intrigued me,” he remarked. “It was on the corner of….” And he pinpointed the exact location of the
white Cape, the house that locals still referred to as “the old Arizona Clark house.”
Of course, it takes awhile to put down roots in any relationship, and this new one that we were entering into with the
Clark house was no
exception. I tackled both house and yard
slowly, trying to get a good feel for what they needed. And there were still things that I had to
call experts in for, such as wallpapering, re-wiring, and removing the
half-dead shrubbery out in front. But I
did more of the work here myself, rag-rolling the majority of the rooms in
purply-blue, mauve, and creamy yellow and putting in flowers, trees, and herbs
that spoke to something deep inside me. As
I painted each room, I, like the walls, became alive and singing with color.
Likewise, as I planted pale-yellow Solstice roses, rainbow-hued irises, red bee
balm, and kaleidoscope butterfly bushes with their fragrant calico flowers, I
drew new strength and energy from the ground I was working.
It has been 11 years since we came here. Perhaps the pussywillow tree that I put in a couple of years ago says it best. I have always loved pussywllows – as a sign of spring and for memory’s sake but especially for the old Polish legend about them. According to that legend, some kittens were thrown into a river; and the mother-cat cried so piteously, the willows on the bank felt her pain and held out their branches for the kittens to cling to. My tree reminds me of that legend and how, in a very real sense, this house called to me, holding out a life-line and helping me find my way back to myself.