a weekend in

 

 

it was hard to leave the house this morning, with the sunrise spilling in across the bed and pablo's eyes not yet open to the day. it reminded me of how we spent this weekend, the three of us huddled under covers while it snowed and sleeted and rained outside, eventually giving way to sun bright and warm enough to walk in.

this was a long weekend of coffee, movies, reading and talking. of stretching and moving and then sitting for inordinately long periods of time on the couch. and for the first time in a while i remembered what relaxing felt like. the tangible weight of Nothing To Do. where the days pass and you change from one form of lounge pants and a t-shirt to another, then into pajamas when the day gets dark enough to warrant such delicious comfort.

we talked about our garden, and our honeybees. about the beach in february and the newport folk festival in july. we planned and schemed our future a little bit on monday. there are  big decisions coming up soon. but for now, for this little pocket of a weekend, we were two kids in the country, a mile or two from the high school halls where we met, cocooning under a homemade afghan and existing on little but egg sandwiches and kit-kats. oh but what a sweet time this is.

home in this place

i came home from the grocery store last night exhausted with nothing to show for my work save a box of hamburger helper and a bag of ham-beens 15-bean soup. and i found robert by the computer, working on plumbing tickets, sipping what i'm sure was his fourth or fifth cup of coffee.

and in that moment, with pablo sitting on the green chair in the corner, it felt like home. felt like a few months ago, when i would return to the cottage to find him in the same position, pablo still patiently waiting.

because this is how you build a home. you stop the decorating for a second. the hanging of pictures and measuring of blinds. the arranging of china and selection of rug textures, colors and prices. i found, this time around, that taking time to step back from designing a home and actually learning to live in it, weekday by tedious weekday, makes the transition easier.

it's the hairbands on the bathroom counter. the shoes by the doorway. the laundry in the dryer. the way the comforter crumbles under the weight of tired arms. the reverb of the lawrence welk record in the den as eggs are scrambled in the kitchen. the late-night devotions and early morning prayers in the driveway.

and it's the lamp with the elephant-shaped handles in the corner. reminding you of another life, time and place. of all that has been and will be and is happening right at this very moment. that home really is the people in it, and all their sounds, messes, piles, smiles and smells are the symphony to which you dance by, day-in and day-out.

still in love with that place

 

 

 

 

 

i kept turning to robert and saying, "they're never going to believe this. these pictures just don't capture it. they have to come here." our entire trip out west felt like a giant, slow motion movie set in the prehistoric era. it was just surreal. the land before time. before high rises and strip malls took over the terrain and and it was just rock as far as the road could stretch.

the food was decadent and rich and spicy and full-bodied. the people were kind and held the land sacred. and the mountains were staggering enough that, on a random tuesday in december, dozens of strangers gathered at an overlook to take in the sunset.

i'll never forget it (and neither will our facebook friends! shout-out to robert's 300 posted pictures! sorry to bomb your newsfeed...) if i could, i would live in a tiny house on a tiny plot of land with a tiny little family and use all our resources to travel. of course, the trip home, to familiar sheets and floorboards and kitchen counters is the best of all.


(and yes that is me in caesar's palace re-creating the elevator scene from the hangover. when you gamble $5.00 and win ten cents you know it's time to move on to new vegas activities.)

the weight of an empty kitchen

in a few short weeks, robert and i will be leaving our little cottage, following a little different path that will hopefully lead us sooner to our forever home. and i've put off writing this post. partially because of all the hustle and  bustle and throwing away that comes with any move. but more so because every time i sit down to write about it, i start to cry.

but last night around midnight, i slipped out of bed and went to the kitchen to get some water. and with the lights off and the moon spilling across the countertops, i could pretend for a second. pretend our plates were still hung on the wall, the way my uncle arranged them that one afternoon. that my yellow spice jars were still sitting on the shelf, the ones i was so happy to find at the dollar store. i could imagine we still had the chalkboard hanging over the microwave, with notes and quotes i couldn't bring myself to erase. that the oversized alarm clock wasn't in a cardboard box somewhere, along with the magnet from our honeymoon, and the vegetables from our garden were still hanging in the wire basket.

i holstered myself up and let my legs dangle by the cabinets. from that vantage point i've watched a million sunrises and seen my windowsill plants lean into the glass. i saw the oven where i burnt that apple cake this year, and the caramel glaze last december. the old wooden table where we sit on weekdays for supper. the meals i tried to make. the ones that succeeded and the tuna casserole that didn't. that little corner where every night i sit and wait with pablo while he eats. i stayed there for a second and breathed it in.

our first night here, i walked around the rooms in the dark. there are only five. i walked around and around them in a circle, learning their curve and shape. i laid on the linoleum and rested my cheek on its cold flower pattern. i leaned into the wood walls and breathed in their years. since then, i've made my mark on every crevice of this tiny place. i can't look outside without remembering the laundry that hung from the clothesline or that warm march night when i went and sat on a blanket alone and listened to ryan adams while the moon shone over the pin oaks. the little porch and swing reminds me of summer nights and white wine, of waving goodbye to parents and of robert in his white sleep shirt, propping the screen door open to wish me a good day at work as i honked in the driveway.

i cried when i took the first picture off the wall. that first moment of deconstruction, of removal. the transformation from home to house, the erasure of all i tried so hard to build. and i cried again last night, my pillow propped against the headboard, the shed light glowing in through the blinds, just as it has every windy night since 2009. 

places and people change, this much i know. and time marches on, but just this time, i wish it would crawl.

scenes from a country cottage: kitchen edition

 

 

 

winter is finally easing out of its heavy boots. it's no longer dark now when i leave the office. when i make the drive home on my favorite backroads. past that little country store and hamburger joint. the little vinyl siding house with the white dog out front, the one who's always sniffing the begonias. that farmhouse tucked behind the woods, with the old white shutters and the ford truck for sale in the field.

when i make it back here, back to this place, there's a pocket of time, about 10 minutes, when it's just me. before robert and pablo bound through the door and the evening begins.

i prop myself up on this old kitchen counter. and watch the sun sink back into the ground. watch the sliver of light dance on the ceiling, then the cabinets, across my shins, then finally onto the metal sink, where it disappears down the drain.

this is my favorite room. my cocoon of sunshine. where i can stretch, still asleep, over coffee and look out onto the road as children on four-wheelers ride by at dusk. where my parents snuck in after our trip to new england. watering our plants and leaving love notes on our chalkboard.

there are old, framed hymns in the den. an engagement portrait in our bedroom. my favorite books stacked up against the toilet tank in the bathroom. little pieces of me, scattered between the bones of these walls. but my spirit is mostly poured into this kitchen. this place of meeting and feasting. of praying. holding hands and making messes. of calendars and photo magnets. cookie jars and coffee mugs.

of five-thirty reflections. of breath between afternoon and night. all from a countertop vantage point, the best view in the house.

let me know that you love me, let that be enough

this is the shed behind my house. it stores robert's motorcycle, a few lawn care items, and an old dog carrier. for a few blissful weeks last may, it was a makeshift home for four kittens i found. the old door handle is worn and rusty. this morning, dew was clinging to its siding. a tall strand of ivy is creeping up its back door, curling it way back to the concrete steps.

but at one time, about seventy years ago, this was a house. a teeny abode for two newlyweds. a few years later, they built the little brick cottage we now call home. it was two rooms. in the middle of the country flanked by cornfields and newly paved roads. shielded by pin oaks and cushioned by blueberry bushes.

whenever this world gets to be too much, whenever i think about the christmas list in my purse, bloggers who go on fabulous trips to europe, and the new boots in the window at the mall, i remember this shed. for its simplicity and smallness. perfect in its absolute minute way.

and if home can found in a garage, i do believe it can be anywhere. i'm learning to embrace that. and the idea that two rooms can be enough. very little can be enough. almost everything i have or think i need is too much. humans are simple creatures, when it comes down to it. love and food are necessities, the base and the roots of the tree. the rest are just ornaments, hanging and embellishing but never enough to stand, to complete, on their own.

in seventy years, i hope

i did dishes last night. and this morning. and yesterday morning and on tuesday too.

the sink is deep and metal. it's got hairline scratches from piles of pans stacked up over seventy years of housekeeping. but it overlooks the front yard and the pin oaks i have grown to adore. and at 5:45 in the afternoon there's a sliver of setting sun that falls on the spigot and makes it flicker. i like to sit up on the countertop and let my heels hit against the knotty pine cabinets.

elbows deep in suds, i thought, i'll probably be doing this for the rest of my life. there will be dishes in the sink and clothes in the hamper day in and day out. it's a sort of a ritualistic romance we lead, me and these chores.

but pablo laid at my heels on the rug as i folded the millionth white undershirt. and robert came up behind me at the sink, getting his arms wet. i dropped the cereal bowl. and at nine in the evening i rested my head against him, breathing in the rusty smell of pipes and copper.

and another thought came, i hope so. i hope at eighty i'm still standing over a sink. maybe looking at the same grassy field. maybe not. maybe in a kitchen full of grandchildren, or perhaps just robert. he'll be eighty-two and by then the callouses on his hands will be deeper. a new dog on the old rug, or maybe just my house slippers.

i hope i'm blessed to always tidy up a house filled with love. but more than that, i hope to always have someone there to pull me from it. to remind me that a messy home is better than a clean house. and, on the really overwhelming days, someone to roll up his sleeves, and stand beside me in bright yellow gloves. washing and scrubbing and loving all the rest of our days.

sew wrong

 via

mama gave me a sewing machine sunday night.

encased in a brown vinyl cover, relics of decades ago perfectly preserved, down to the tube of oil still leaking. a pretty ol' singer, in a sweet shade of cream. the beast was heavy, but i lugged her onto the kitchen counter. with a few minutes of home to myself, i plugged it in and the machine lit up like the highway at midnight.

and i read instructions. i watched youtube videos. i sat and stared at the thing and thought to myself, if i were a bobbin thread, how would i pull myself up? it seemed easy enough, and the fashion designers online made it looks as easy as frosting a cupcake (which can, it turns out, also be kind of hard).

i tried for hours. robert came in and sat beside me. pablo barked at my heels and the sun finally set on the day and my seamstress dreams. i went to bed discouraged. it's such a lovely thing to sew. so domestic and pretty and dainty and all things soft and warm and comfortable in this world. and there i sat, in a seventy-year old house where many a lacy pillowcase had been made. my big knuckles and impatient heart two giant stumbling blocks.

but the thing is, i may never learn. my hands may always be more equipped for washing dishes over a sink of hot water. for lugging around a heavy pup. for making soup and biscuits and painting desks cherry red. besides, whoever decided to make needle eyes so blessed small obviously didn't have a desk job in front of a computer. because those two just don't jive.

learning a lost art

she had the couch reupholstered last year. the one right by the front door, in a pearly shade of white. clean, like a sno-cone before the grape juice seeps into the cracks.

but no one really comes to sit there anymore, except her husband, when he needs to see the television. or stretch his legs. except the woman who lives next door, with a son not much younger than hers, in his fifties.

but in early evening, when the day's baking is done, when her grandson has gone home for the night and her husband's head is drooped down in slumber on the recliner, dolores sits there. under the lamplight around seven thirty. bathed and in her nightgown, with a heavier scent of powder than she wears for the daytime.

and she embroiders. tea towels. baby bibs. his and her pillowcases. old iron-on patterns she's kept since the sixties. new ones she found on sale at hobby lobby. she has to go slow, and it takes her weeks to finish one pattern. she has the shakes now, she says.

and robert's grandma has offered to teach me. how to embroider. how to choose the right shade of thread to make the bear's belly brown and the flowers pale pink. to make loop stitches and knots. once we get back from our new england trip, a weekly evening jaunt to her warm little house in the city is on my agenda.

it's a lost art, this sewing business. this making pictures out of string. but like the woman who relaxes to it, i'm convinced it only gets better, gets richer and more beautiful, with age.

cabins, floral sheets and rockers

driving through the country this weekend, robert and i stumbled upon this little campground. robert used to visit here with his family when he was younger.

for two weeks in the heat of summer, people congregate here. they worship and feast and fellowship under the big tents. cabins are passed down through generations, and every cabin has a front porch rocker.

and i was a bit in love with the whole place.

scenes from the cottage: soybean fields, offices and an appearance by pablo

 

 

 

i pulled into the gravel drive around dusk last night, after supper with my family. and as i turned the key into the old lock, the one that's turned to the right for entire generations passed, i looked to my left.

and the sun was setting just to the right of the shed. and i noticed the house for the first time. really noticed it. the clean lines of the brick and the way they align so beautifully. the old apple tree in the back curving under the weight of storms, sun and age. the old shed, with its whitewashed wood and new roof.

and as i crossed the threshold into the office, i put my bags down. pablo sprinted in from the living room, followed by robert close on his heels. and i thought to myself, if i wasn't home before, if the feel of gravel under my tires and the squeal of the key wasn't enough to convince me, i am home now.

back in my arms again

 

i bet you thought this post would be about robert, and the fact that he's home from his weekend in virginia. and he is. he came back with a thunderstorm quick on his heels this sunday. and when he pulled into the gravel driveway, i dropped the mixing  bowl on the kitchen counter and ran out in  my dress and bare feet. i gathered his scruffy face in my hands and breathed him in.

but someone else was gone this weekend, and has also returned.

and as he napped on my chest last night, and curled his little toes onto my stomach, i felt the steady rise of his stomach, followed by a sweet drop and sigh escaping from his wet nose. and i thought about how, years from now, i will sit on that same sofa. and stroke back baby hair. and wrap my bare arms around a warm little person and feel the same rhythmic beat of breath.

but for now, puppies are enough. especially one who knocked me down with joy the second i walked in from the rain.

a little family addition

after supper on our first date, robert told me he had something he wanted to show me back at his house. i looked out the window into the august night and whispered that i wasn't that kind of girl. he laughed, and pulled into the driveway. "i want you to check out my parent's 1985 volkswagon van!" he exclaimed. he popped open the top, and i watched as this almost stranger told me all about the memories he'd had in the van with his family, his boy scout troop, and his friends. and i think i fell in love with him a little bit on the spot.

eight years passed. and his parents sold the van. and we drove our little hondas around proudly. we took our sedans back and forth on the weekends to college, and made memories driving along the country roads near our home.

but last week, we saw this bad boy. a fully restored 1971 volkswagen camper bus. with a fresh paint job, new tires, new engine, re-sealed windows, and my favorite upgrade, heated seats. plus, there's a sink and an icebox. hello camping.

and we're in love. never before have we been treated with such attention driving around town. people stop and wave, give us thumbs up, and shout "love the bus!" it's so fun.

but the best part about our new ride? it got us thinking more seriously about filling the yellow and white checkered backseats with a little family. of bringing this whole story full circle. and holding robert's hand across the dashboard last night, i realized how perfect that first date turned out to be.

the baddest watchdog that ever was

one of the most trying nights in our marriage occurred about a week before moving into our little cottage. we were tired. we were cold. it was halloween night and our new neighbors were having a party. but we were inside assembling our bright yellow ikea kitchen chairs and television stand.

then we tried to fit our sectional into the tiny living room. the unique angles and corners of the space were one of the first things i had fallen in love with on our tour. but that night? we couldn't for the life of us figure out how to work with the room and fit the couch.

so we jutted it about a foot from the old wooden windowsill. the one that catches ladybugs and late afternoon sunbeams. and finally, we realized, pablo had a lookout spot.

he's pretty fierce looking, if you can't tell. his intimidating fluffy white hair and glorious, cascading tail are enough to scare away even the most determined intruder, whom pablo would immediately shower with kisses. at night, he sits under the reading lamp and keeps watch.

but protecting an entire cottage is tough work, and pabs sometimes gets a bit sleepy.

i'll forever love our little watchdog, and i'm forever grateful that he's got a little lookout space to call his own. and looking back on it, it makes me laugh that we got that upset about the couch that night. he in his red basketball shorts and me in my robe. sitting in the middle of an empty new house with white washed walls and linoleum floors. and every night that pablo climbs up onto his perch, i'm reminded that it was worth it. everything was worth it.