It's a snow day in my city... something that hasn't happened in 25 years. This means many things, but one thing is that all of the schools are shut down today and tomorrow because of the "worst spring blizzard in decades". After living through the worst winter also in decades, trudging through the snow in subarctic temperatures daily to my car to drive to work on icy roads, I feel like I've been given a surreal gift -- two days of living outside of normal. My educator self can abandon her routine for the next few days and do whatever she wants. Although I like my job, I welcome this mandate thrust upon us all by the city: Stay Home.
At the moment, the snow is falling only lightly, teasing us, making us wonder what it's going to do next. It was raging earlier in the day though, rapidly covering everything that had only recently melted. I watch the thin wispy flakes playing around outside my window and have a little chuckle, followed by a zen moment of sorts. I am reminded of the power of weather, of snow, wind, and rain, and of all of the other things that nature has in store for us, things that we can't stop from happening. My zen reflection involves an aspect of surrender for sure, and I am well aware that I sit from a position of privilege to ponder this all from my cozy house. But ponder I will. Because I am good at that sort of thing.
Just like I've been at the mercy of the weather, so too have I been at the mercy of my house this past winter, and I don't think this is going to end anytime soon. My house is 113 years old and although is still going strong and is blessed with an amazing bone structure and overall good health, her age is no longer a well-kept secret. There have been too many signs in the last while, too many giveaways that can't be ignored. They pile inside and upon her centenarian frame, screaming, "Notice me, you idiot. Tend to what needs fixing, and tend to it now... or else!"
The signs are numerous and varied. Cracks of all sizes, shapes and depths run along ceilings and walls. Most are small, thin, almost imperceptible and require my reading glasses to fully see them. But some are not small. Some are strangely large and filled with a meaning I struggle to know. They require no reading glasses. They are the ones yelling at me as I pass, gliding innocently along in a room. I say innocent because that is how I feel. Because I am not the one who did this. It is being done to me. This aging house is doing it, despite all of the caregiving I've done. She invites the mice in through the basement, and the squirrels in through the roof. She creates water stains on a patch in the kitchen. She makes paint buckle in odd places, nothing extreme, but just enough to notice. She lifts shingles off the roof and lets the water in. She causes faucets to drip. She creaks and makes bizarre noises when I'm trying to enjoy the quiet. She basically does her own thing lately and doesn't seem to give a damn about me.
So, recently, I was ready to abandon her. I emailed my realtor (the one who found this ancient beauty for me) in the midst of yet another domestic crisis and told her I might be ready to sell. That day, my house had decided she couldn't take the extreme wind chill anymore and the pipes in the upstairs bathroom froze. Although this was nothing new since I had experienced it off and on over the past decade and knew from experience that it would likely be brief, I felt something inside of me snapping. It didn't help that the pipes in the downstairs bathroom had also been frozen at this point for well over 2 months (worst winter in decades remember), or that a part in my new dishwasher had also frozen and burst, and I was waiting for it to be repaired as well. It didn't help that things just kept happening, breaking, cracking, and freezing. It didn't help that she was 113 fucking years old I guess.
So in a moment of weakness and frustration, mostly for having to take care of all things house related alone, being a single woman, I reached out to my realtor. I was ready to take the plunge, to get rid of all homeowner responsibilities for good. I was ready for modern, clean, and slick rooms, and walls with no cracks. I wanted contemporary, and wanted to join the times. I was looking forward to a future of no longer worrying about what my 113 year old house would be up to next, and what I would have to do to handle it. I was ready for apartment or condo living. So I arranged a time for the realtor to come and assess my house, and I told my son. I said that the house had served us well for the past 11 years but that it was time to move on now as we were entering a new phase of our lives. I felt emotional but spoke rationally, plainly, surprising myself with my logical arguments. Maybe this wouldn't be so hard after all.
Then something happened to change the tangent I was on. I think I started to fall in love with my house all over again. Looking through the condo listings that my realtor sent, I felt uneasy inside. The same thing happened when I scrolled through current apartments for rent on the internet. It just didn't feel right. Try as I might, I couldn't see myself or my son in those spaces, even in their sparkling perfectness. And when I did see us, it was all of the things I knew would annoy me-- like balconies overlooking parking lots, or hearing the neighbours' footsteps overhead as I tried to sleep, or smelling someone else's cooking as it wafted under my door-- basically all of the things I'd experienced a long time ago when I did my share of apartment living. Things that were part of another era and that I didn't want to revisit. So I decided to stay in this house and to keep looking after her as I'd looked after her for almost 12 years. For awhile longer anyway.
Since I made my decision, I've felt a lightness that I haven't felt in awhile. I know there are things that need doing around here and that my 113 year old host won't be happy until I do them. The difference is that I no longer feel like I need to go into battle with my house every time something needs tending to. So I made a few preliminary phone calls to get the ball rolling. I'm not deluded, I know there will be more phone calls, decisions and projects to tackle as long as I choose to remain in this house. But the lightness means I'm okay to do those things for the time being. More than okay really. I look forward to sinking my body into my old comfy couch in my front porch this summer with a good book, as I do every summer. The porch might be my favourite room in the house with its old windows and doors draped in character and cradling me in a warm embrace. I'm just not ready to give that up.
