Mind-numbing
Our trip to Lowe’s coincided with the landfall of Katrina. Having zero firsthand knowledge of hurricanes, I had been keeping up with the broadcasts and felt guardedly relieved when Katrina turned slightly toward land that was above sea level, was downgraded though still brutal, and the anticipated surge in New Orleans was reduced to 17 ft. offering the probability that the city would not be “the next Atlantis.” The web of connection to the place and the people is more intricate and extensive than satellite newsrooms. We either have been there, know someone there, or know someone who knows someone. 
We watch the horror gape-mouthed and wait. We all need to donate.
Disasters happen. They’ve been happening since time began which no one can trace. It’s too easy to forget that we haven’t always been able to see a satellite view of them which gives time for evacuation. The statistical magnitude is measured by category and lives lost and current restoration dollars. The cries are not recorded, the dead are not named in these cold statistics but the money is calculated to the penny. Even factoring past damages for inflation, this is the worst hurricane disaster in terms of dollars in this current cycle, or so we’re told. Depending on the news source, it’s all about global warming, not cycles. Tell me how 10 category 4 hurricanes from 1900 through 1940 could have been caused by global warming caused by excessive fossil fuel use, and FDR, a democrat and a liberal, was in office for the last 10 years of that time frame. Funny, all the weather experts aren’t agreeing that GW is the “done deal” conclusion, but most of the pundits who quote the expert of their choice, call it as incontrovertible fact. So I don’t swallow it whole.
My sister in California called me last night worried that the remaining winds and rain would blow my house down. Would I evacuate if I thought it was? And where would I go? She said they were staying in the French Quarter 
over the weekend. A taxi driver offered them a lift to Baton Rouge at the last minute Sunday evening when the barricades were going up. He told them he had seen storms and threats of storms come and go for 57 years. But the levees were known to need repair and the current threat was bigger than the others. He decided not to chance it this time.
Remember the mountain man who wouldn’t leave his home when Mt. St. Helens was rumbling? He, too, had lived through many threats. We make decisions based on incoming information weighed against personal experience, history, and capabilities. I caught my breath when I heard the report of the man and wife who were holding onto each other when their house split apart and she told him to take care of the kids and grandkids before she was washed away from his sight.
Little did anyone know that the aftermath would continue to worsen.
Not only are the talk airwaves resplendent with woulda-coulda-shoulda commentary, but the international press is saying we deserved it. Something tells me the world community won’t lift a finger after blasting the US for not giving enough fast enough to the tsunami crisis last December.
Until I have walked in a disaster victim’s moccasins, I offer sympathy rather than join the ranks of those who analyze and point. I will call the Red Cross office with a donation.
Labor Day, redefined.
I want to sleep for a week. Call it a goal.
Last Saturday we were preparing to remodel the bathroom over the Labor Day weekend. Before the day was out we took out all the interior walls. It sounds simpler than it turned out. In order to save and reuse some of the wood and trim we had to remove nails and staples and try to keep as many wall parts intact as possible. The commode is free standing. A true throne.
I received a sliver in my finger, a puncture on my right hand and left heel, a bruise on the same left heel, a bruise on my right elbow, and a door frame which landed on my little toe. There are more body parts to injure. I can hardly wait. My hands are swollen. All joints ache. Movement is slow….er than normal.
So tonight we went shopping. No, not the mall. We went to Lowe’s. We’ve been there a few times picking out this and that. I think we’ve made some outstanding choices. I am really looking forward to the finished project. Really, really good patterns and colors. I’ll be sure to take pictures.
This trip, we had a two page list and had to price each item. This is good stewardship. I wore the wrong shoes. This is airheadedness. Getting right down to it, I don’t own a pair of right shoes to spend that amount of time in Lowe’s on concrete.
Here’s the plan. We place the order and show our 12 month no interest coupon to the nice person in the red May-I-Help-You vest. (So, why does one have to chase these red vested people? And why is May-I-Help-You written on their backs ?) This time, since the list includes sheetrock and plywood, and we aren’t getting any younger, we are having it delivered. That way if they break a piece of sheetrock or a bone, it’s covered under their worker’s comp insurance, not my homeowners or medical insurance.
Then, while the rest of the nation is burning steaks on the barby to celebrate the laboring man’s contribution to society, we are taking out cabinets, sinks, wallboard, the pot, and flooring and putting in insulation, flooring, walls, sheetrock, and hopefully, the pot.
We invited our best friends over. Do not tell them why.
Feed Me!
Meet Elmer Russel Murphy, spring of 1907. Awwwwww. Look at those ‘dorable fat cheeks! Ten and a half pounds at birth on February 12, as close as the doctor could tell with his portable scales of the day. That means he was born at home, honey! He looks like if you poke him with a hat pin, he’d fly around the room.
Fast forward 69 years to the day to his grandson, Randy, 2 months, 22 days.
He cries, he whimpers. He wiggles and fusses. So what’s a mommy to do? Feed him, of course. Then pat his back firmly for a belch, change the diaper, and hope to heaven he falls asleep for another two hours.
What you see here is a 2 month old who, from day one, breastfed every hour during my wake time and every two hours throughout the night. "Feed him cereal at night. He’ll sleep right through." Not.
It wasn’t long after this shot on Feb 12 that he did indeed sleep through the night all the way to 10am. But it wasn’t because of cereal at bedtime.
You haven’t seen a mommy dash so fast from bed to crib as I did when I rolled over, fully rested for the first time in months. I immediately thought the worst. Ohm’god!! What I found was a 16 lb. 8 oz two month old sucking mercilessly on his thumb.
Whew. whew. whew. I hauled him out of there and held him close. He was suddenly awake and very, very hungry.
My computer wallpaper at work is a photo of this now grown man’s 2 year old son, my grandson, smiling with cheerios in his mouth. He had just eaten a full meal for cryin’ out loud and now had even more food in his mouth! Were there more Cheerios in his little fists waiting their turn? Some things just go on and on and on.
It’s a gene thing. I love it.
Quick! Where’s the camera?
Before she drowns!!
Some kids are textbook. They do something, you find it in the index with a page number, and there’s your answer. Apply, and success is yours.
Then there are kids who rip the edge of the envelope and write a new one.
My daughter is the 22nd of 22 grandchildren. I babysat many of those other grandchildren as I was growing up. Plus I babysat other kids throughout my junior high and senior high years. I had extensive experience with children of all ages by the time I had my own. Diapers, bottles, and bedtimes were nothing new. However, no matter the experience with other people’s kids, there are some things your own offspring hand you that is new. Some? Understatement.
Standard Operating Procedure according to all the authors, the other mothers, my own mother, my mother-in-law, my sisters, my first child, and strangers on the street — "Please help me!!" "Go away!!" — is that in the child’s first year, he/she will nap in the morning and in the afternoon and go to bed at 8:00. In the child’s second year, he/she will not need a morning nap and will nap only in the afternoon. Brenda didn’t read the books.
At 3 months, the morning nap was history. It was replaced by screaming not heard in any horror movie — ever. Ok. She wins. At less than one year, the afternoon nap also became nuclear. Ok. I want peace. She can stay up all day. Also, during the course of the first year, a 10:30 bedtime was a contest of wills. By the time I just knew her lungs were about to hit the wall, she slumped and slept.
When it was clear that there were no naps ever again, she developed a pattern. When she first dumped the naptime, it was about once a week between 5 and 7:00pm that she would stop whatever high energy activity that she was in the middle of and be still for about two minutes during which time her eyes became heavy, drifted shut, and she slowly slumped over. We would scoop her off the floor, the sofa, the high chair (yes, we wiped the food off), or wherever, deposit her in the crib, and the next morning she awoke refreshed, perky as you please.
I want to pause here and say that Brenda was the prettiest, sweetest, most pleasant and fun little person I ever knew. I hope someday she has a baby as adorable as she was.
This pass-out pattern prevailed throughout toddlerness. As she grew older, the one week became two, the two weeks stretched into a month and eventually, she made it to bedtime, dragged out, but dag-nabbit, she didn’t give up. By the time early elementary school came around, the big brother partnered with her to negotiate for a later bedtime. Of course, he ruled and she was in full agreement. The new negotiated bedtime was 9:00. It wasn’t more than a week, and BB approached us, in tears, asking if she could please go to bed at 8:30. Sure. We give.
Hey, Lily, you were a ball. And we didn’t let you drown.
Lions and Tigers and Leaks-Oh My!
First, a couple of updates:
I have completed the 4th or is it the 5th week of 4-5 thirty minute 5:30 am workouts. I’m beginning to feel, although not see, some changes. So that plus the doctor’s threats ( “or else” what?) have helped me continue falling out of bed 45 minutes before it’s reasonable. I really need to see a result or two in another 4 weeks, please.
The foliage in the front yard, about half of which I can no longer identify, has not died though that tree still looks suspiciously ill. I think I’ll slap it.
The fencing project is on hold for two reasons. 1. Stan is at a trade show this weekend in Alabama (doesn’t everybody in the south purposely travel from hot and muggy to hotter and muggier?) and 2. A pipe under the master bath sprung a leak.
A manufactured home has a thick layer of fiberglass insulation under the floor and is protected by a tough layer of plastic. The pipes are within this so they won’t freeze in the winter. Winter? So when there’s a leak, you don’t know it’s there until it looks like a gigantic water balloon full of formerly fluffy but now wet insulation. I volunteered to cut the bag open and reported that the pipe looked like a spurting artery.
Consequences of a leak like this include but are not limited to:
—A swamp in the grass with a happy turtle in it.
—Mud and pools of muddy water under the house where the lazy doorknob installation personnel didn’t lay the plastic ground barrier like they were supposed to.
—Floorboards that are soaked, warped, molded, and let’s not forget–stinking, 10 feet in all directions from the aforementioned spurting artery.
Of course, all discoveries like this that require uncomfortable and exhaustive repair happen just before dark on a Sunday night.
After work, Monday. Overcast rumbling sky. 90+ degrees. Humid. Stan bought the wrong size whatchmacallit at Lowe’s on the way home and had to make a 30 mile round trip to get the right one. He didn’t swear; he’s an elder. My first assignment was to cut out the linoleum and carry the smelly drippy pieces across the carpet to the deck while he was relaxing in the car. Sweat is good. It purges the body of unwanted toxins.
My next assignment was to sit under the house behind him and hand him the fumey orange can then the fumey purple can over and over while his head was stuck into the opening in the bag and surrounded by fiberglass which rendered him almost totally deaf and muffled his voice so that he had to shout PURPLE CAN and ORANGE CAN. I was all of 13 inches away. He didn’t swear; he’s an elder.
During the course of this I had to bag the insulation scraps. Honey, where are the HONEY! HONEY! Where are the bags we bought? The trunk. There’s a motor sound coming from the trunk and the car is not running. STAN! THERE’S A …. He didn’t swear. You know why. He yanks the deallybob off the motorized antenna whatchmajig which apparently stuck. Fixed it. What’s next?
If any of your life experiences have equated to Plumbing 101, you know you’re not repairing any house pipes without the water having been turned off. So….. Because the repaired joint had to “set up” we couldn’t turn on the water for at least an hour. An hour later, Stan made the executive decision that he would turn the water on to test it after…. another …hour “or so.” No showers tonight and we don’t have enough spring water jugs to make a difference. Bleck. We didn’t swear. Stan’s an elder.
I’m not done yet. Keep reading.
Tuesday he took the day off to cut, bag, and take to the dump bags of plastic and insulation he had to cut off from just half of the floor. We’ll go after the rest later. It will eventually smell. On the way back from the dump, he had to stop the Chevy 3 times to cool it off. Head gasket? How much did you say fixing that costs? I hear Taps. Stan’s had such a good attitude so far. Poor baby.
We’ve chosen what floor tile we want. While we’re at it, we’ll paint and border and put a blind in the window now that we have neighbors behind us. We’re just holding our breath and I am holding my nose waiting for another 6 month, no interest deal from Lowe’s or Home Depot. It should be soon with Labor Day coming up.
We’ll be fine. This is a little setback, an easy fixable. A proper attitude gets us through a lot. We know Who hung the moon and stars. We know He’ll take care of this stuff too. You don’t have to be an elder to get it.
Youngest Son to Youngest Son
Check out the hat. Some looks just don’t last, do they?
There was no date on the back, nor were there names. But I happen to know that Susan Ethel Parrish Murphy is on the left, my dad, Elmer Russel Murphy is on the right, and the little guy in the middle is Leslie Murphy, son of Herman, dad’s older brother. I can’t be sure of the date, but it’s somewhere in the 30’s.
I am in possession of the old Murphy family Bible. The copyright is 1804. I am told it was carried throughout the Kentucky and Tennessee wilderness by The Murphy Boys, both circuit riding Baptist ministers of the hardshell order. That phrase indicates a strict adherance to scripture to a decimal point. The shalt nots were the order of the day. Yet, in those days many settlers pledged their commitment in front of the other settlers as witnesses and had children before the circuit preacher could get to the settlement and make it official. I like to open it and breathe in the smell of "old, old book" and imagine it new, smooth leather, accumulating miles on horseback. Maybe if I close my eyes and concentrate I’ll hear the snap of twigs, the sound of laughter, robust singing, catch the faint scent of woods, perfectly pure air, wildflowers, or just plain horseflesh.
When Dad finally gave it to me, I carefully turned the pages and found a drawing of a child’s hand, a handwritten paper that showed lineage back to merry old England, two knights in the 1500’s and back even further, a name of a sheriff in 1100-something who had no last name, and more to be treasured, records of births and deaths of those who shaped my heritage before the Declaration of Independence was even thought of.
…… " so let the youngest son have the preference. Isaac T. Murphy, Kewanee, Illinois, March 17th 1895."
Isaac T was my father’s grandfather. He was the 16th and final child, born last of 5 children of the second wife (we can only guess the first wife wore out) of the Rev. John Murphy, Jr., son of John Murphy, a veteran of Valley Forge, and Rachel Cooke who married and moved with him from Virginia to Tennessee prior to the Revolution.
Like the properly folded flag that is carefully laid in the arms a family member after a veteran’s funeral, so this Bible came to me. I can almost feel the history in my fingertips and hear the faint whispers of the past. It’s more than a relic, it’s a treasure.
The youngest son to the youngest son. Because Dad had 3 girls and Mom was 41 when the 3rd girl came along, that would be me, Leslie was the only male child to carry the name Murphy in the line, unlike the days of old when people had enough children to have at least 3 sons among them. Being the 16th, Isaac T. would have been shocked to see the population control of our day.
Leslie joined the armed services, I can’t remember which branch, and was dispatched to Korea in the early 50’s. His wife remained at home near Monmouth in the trailer park. I forget her name. When he came home, we were so happy. Man, he was cute! I was 6 years old and, like my sisters, was totally charmed by this uniformed cousin with curly blonde hair. In a few weeks, he was dead.
Suicide, the sheriff said. Gunshot wound to the head. Leslie was left handed. The gun was on the floor under his right hand. He was not wearing gloves. There were no prints on the gun. A somewhat smallish figure in a big overcoat was seen leaving the trailer shortly after the shot was heard. Suicide was the irrevocable call. Don’t anyone forget the circumstances surrounding my good cousin’s death.
I am simply the youngest of the youngest. After it is inconvenient for me to keep the Bible, it will be handed down to one of my two children, neither of whom is surnamed Murphy. They can take turns caring for it if they so wish. Surnames can’t matter now and shouldn’t be an issue. All I ask is that the keeper(s) of it know the history, and treasure it with the Bible itself, that they pass that history to the next keeper and the next, until such time as Jesus returns to earth. The finest diamonds will pale in comparison to Him and the Peace He will establish; the Murphy Bible will be unimportant.
But, until then, it’s 201 years and counting.
Bad and Good Photography
You’re looking at August, 1977, in my aunt Elva’s house following The Hoornstra Reunion in The Soo. From left to right, Roy Wagner, Elva Smart Wagner, Doris Smart Murphy, Verna Smart Dickson, Randy Brock (that’s his little hands behind Verna’s head), Russel Murphy, Jane Murphy Brock. Not yet unveiled is Brenda Brock, about 1" tall. Stan Brock, photographer. Give him a break. A ding-dong polaroid is all we had to work with.
Roll back the clock to 1924. Elva and my mom, Doris, are sisters, Elva being 8 years older. She 
is the one in the middle. My grandmother Mary who died from pneumonia after surgery 8 years later, is sitting to Elva’s left and Mom is sitting lower right, aged 16. When we girls were young, my sister Margaret was Mom’s image in that photo. As we age, I see more of me in this and other pictures. Mom told us that a split second before the photographer snapped this, the allegedly grown men in the back were cutting up, teasing, and being boys.
In the 50’s and 60’s Mom and Elva could have been twins. Elva’s grandkids were confused on more than one occasion. One time Elva phoned Mom to tell her that she had seen her own reflection in Woolworth’s mirror behind the soda fountain and spent the next several minutes stomping around the store looking for Mom intending to give her a piece of her mind for coming to town and not telling her!
Elva was the sister who took Mom under her wing when Mom made the sudden and surprise transition to womanhood. Mom thought she was dying. It was Elva who had eleven babies in less than 15 years, 5 boys followed by 5 girls. One girl was stillborn in the midst of the first 5 boys. Roy teared up in his old age when he mentioned her. Even with a house full of kids and a depression going on, Elva didn’t hesitate to take Mom in, pregnant and towing a toddler, when she left a man she only thought she had married. He had not divorced the first wife. The community, people she’d known from childhood, branded Mom. Elva didn’t care. Roy said he kept Elva around "for heat in the winter and shade in the summer." She referred to him as "an old bat."
That August weekend in ‘77 was a kick. Mom and Dad stayed with Roy and Elva; we stayed with Verna in town. We were wondering where Randy’s chip out of his ear came from until Aunt Verna showed us hers. huh. Never know where those genes will pop up. Haven’t seen that trait before or since. But it’s still out there somewhere.
Reunions are all alike. You go there and see some people you know, others you don’t and spend most of your time re-introducing yourself to people you’ll never see again and stand in the grass for a huge group photo with everyone’s face so tiny, you can’t find yourself. I’m glad Stan had the opportunity to meet the aunts and uncles. I’m glad they got to meet Stan and Randy. Generations come and generations go. It’s up to the current to bridge the old and new with stories and pictures. You are what you came from.
It was a tiring trip back to Litchfield. That early stage of pregnancy gave me only enough energy to tag after the toddler on a good day and I hadn’t recovered from the travel when the phone rang. Mom and Dad had barely arrived home when the call came that Elva had been taken to the hospital with a severe gall bladder attack and died. I feel the vacancy again.
It’s been 28 years this month since she left the group. All of the family in that photo are gone now, but they’re still part of me, even the ones who died before I was born. So here I bridge the gap between them and you.
Once upon a time we’re all young and good looking. We just take turns.
Resistance is Futile
That’s a quote from a 1996 Star Trek movie . Capt. Picard is being changed from man to machine under control of the Borgs. That’s the line they fed him repeatedly to break his will. It’s a memorable line, and fun to use but not valuable. In fact, in real life, resistance is beneficial.
Resistance training with weights builds and strengthens the muscles making them more efficient at fat burning. Results are visible, attractive, and improve one’s overall health. But wait, before you buy the Bowflex, consider more benefits of resistance. When you actively resist gravity by long walks, taking the stairs, reaching, stretching, etc. you keep the blood flowing, the brain thinking, the heart pumping. You also by this time really get my point.
Resistance to temptation develops and strengthens resolve. Resisting a comeback i.e. a smart mouth response, may save your job or a relationship. Don’t always excuse that quick zinger as venting and don’t give me that look. If you can’t say something nice, at least be vague.
Resistance to wrong can mean standing up to a bully and ending your own or someone else’s torture. Resistance to lies by standing up for the truth may produce painful derisive laughter, but your character just got polished. I could give you a long list, but if you’re over the age of 7 and you weren’t the most or best among your peers, you are amassing your own list.
We have a friend about 15 years older than we are who was athletic, lean and a mean basketball player. One day he declared he was tired and sat down. And stayed there. “That’s enough exercise for one lifetime. Now I’m going to sit” I don’t know how long it took for his body to reverse and go downhill but it did. He is now dependent on a motorized wheel chair, is diabetic, obese, has had a few heart bypasses, his knees are bone on bone and there is zero circulation in his feet. He just had a major heart attack a few weeks ago. He couldn’t resist not resisting the ravages of the couch potato lifestyle. Resistance keeps you healthy.
Consider the humble bumble bees . Their bodies’ size and shape in proportion to their wings makes flying improbable. But they do. Their maneuverability, speed, and endurance is a puzzle. So they were taken on a space mission for observation in a weightless environment. I don’t know exactly what the researchers were expecting. Maybe more speed? Maybe little buzzy sighs and smiles as they enjoyed a life of ease? No. They died. It was resisting and overcoming the odds to fly that kept them able to fly. And alive. Resistance is not only good for you, it’s necessary.
Denial is futile.
Pictures on the Wall
Suppose you are visiting someone and notice a picture that’s hanging crooked. Do you straighten it? Do you look away and pretend nothing is crooked? Some people will walk up to it and tilt their head to match the picture’s tilt. The crooked picture scenario is used by many people to identify who is the fixer, the tolerant, or the adaptable. Which one are you? For me it depends on how badly tilted it is or if there is something else going on that supercedes the importance of incorrect images.
Priorities. Urgency. The main thing is to keep the main thing the main thing. I’m not going to waste valuable time straightening pictures in a burning house.
In Jesus’ day, the process of getting married started with the groom’s father . Please read that beautiful link and see how it typifies Jesus as the groom and His church, we, the currently saved and constantly watching, as His bride. Notice the part where the groom is finished building the room onto his father’s house (In my house are many mansions, more accurately translated “rooms” in John 14:2) and surprises the bride. She drops what she’s doing to go with him to the marriage celebration. No “wait a minute.” No “come back tomorrow.” No “you could have called first, you know!” No straightening pictures she’s leaving behind. She’s ready at a moment’s notice and doesn’t look back.
We are instructed to watch and wait as well as “occupy” until He comes again for us. And it will be a huge surprise. The Father has to declare the rooms ready. The Father decides. Jesus Himself doesn’t know the day or the hour. And then suddenly……..!…..the wedding trumpet sounds and we are snatched from our world and catapulted into His presence! Those of us who are keeping one eye open for His return, watching the signals He laid out in the contract, as we enjoy our blessings here.
Let’s review. We accept His offer of salvation. We are His at that point. The only thing that can separate us is a bill of divorcement and He promised He would not be the one to do that. But we can. We can fall away from neglect leaving ourselves open to enemy attacks, forget Him and become entangled in our own ways, consciously decide to tell Him to leave us alone, or we can willfully disobey repeatedly until our hearts gradually grow cold and distant before we know it.
The house is burning. It’s the kind hidden in the walls getting worse and worse with each step away from Jesus’ teachings. We justify, we excuse, we analyze, rationalize. We keep adjusting the crooked pictures, trying to figure out who to blame for their skewed state, ignoring the fire.
The stage is set. The signs are more glaring than ever before. The time is now. And we’ve been saying and hearing this for over 2000 years. That means we are 2000 years closer than we were. Don’t give up the watch. Imagine the man falling from a high cliff. Until he hits ground, he believes himself to be flying.
No matter how wonderful it is here, and it is, the future with Jesus is better. Isn’t that the understatement of the millenium? Occupy. Use your talents and your time to complete what He’s assigned you. Revel in your blessings. The song says “Live, love, laugh, and be happy.” Be prepared to leave the pictures hanging crooked…. Without warning…. Until then,
Watchfully wait for the groom.
Projects up The Wazoo
The Wazoo is a river in darkest Africa that flows through the Watusi tribal grounds. No one knows its source. It is where barges and barges of our projects have been carried up river where they collect and procreate like bunnies. They float back down in groups, unbidden, and untimely. We will never run out. They’ve followed us everywhere since we signed the bottom line of home ownership. If it wasn’t a room that needed painting or papering, it was a garage sale, shrubbery replacement, a sandbox or swingset, and just wait until I tell you about the steel I-beam in the basement after our 1986 midnight flood. We are currently building fence sections as a backdrop to a flower bed that is overgrown with grass. And the new maple tree is simultaneously curling up and sprouting new grown. Go figure.
Of all our projects, the one that comes to mind as the most fun is the railing in the Litch house. The second most fun was the removal of the wall between the two bedrooms creating a bigger and better master-almost-suite.
When we first moved in in 1974 we were thrilled. Moving day saw the two of us, Herb and Edna, Don and his whole family doing something. Everybody had a paint brush in his/her hand. Gary was in the linen closet, Herb painting in the master bedroom all day, Don painting in the spare bedroom a few hours, Stan, Kevin, and Greg hauling loads of stuff from the apartment, and Edna, Berniece, and Linda all over the kitchen disbursing dishes and pans and food. Each room was a different color. That was the 70’s and that’s how it was done.
The basement was concrete and open 2 x 4’s because we could get a price reduction by leaving it unfinished. The carpet was gold in the living room and hallway, blue shag (yes, shag) in the master bedroom, a green sculpture in the second bedroom, and a rust-brown-orange-yellow hexagon pattern in the kitchen. The kitchen carpet fit the 70’s well and the crumbs blended into the pattern for well over a week at a time. As time went on into the 80’s, the fall colors gave way to mauves and blues, and in our case, peach. We did keep up with the times.
I stayed home with the babies. I will treasure that opportunity that will not come around again, even though we had to sit on a $20 bill for two weeks consistently. Both hosting and shopping garage sales became a way of life. Being in the house during that time, I was able to see all the things that needed doing – lots and lots of projects. One of them was the railing. Make that two. We had a split entry house, six steps up and six steps down from the front door. The living room wrought iron railing protected one from falling into the entryway. The Mediterranian look of black furniture, white walls, red accent–usually in the form of fur pillows or something vinyl, and black wrought iron was big then. All we had of that look was the black railing to accent the gold room. It didn’t take too long to get really tired of it especially when I was looking at it all day every day. Taking that out was easy — unscrew 10 or so screws, lift off and carry to the garage. The other railing wasn’t a railing at all but a wall–2 x 4’s, sheetrock, dark wood plank– it was a wall between the steps up and the steps down. It blocked my view of, of, well, it just blocked!
I wanted Stan to cut it down and replace it with spindles. Oh, but this and Oh, but that. We need to be sure about something about loadbearing or keeping the steps from caving or I forget what all the dangers were. "Don’t do anything," he said on his way to work.
Did those wedding vows actually say "obey" and was I to take that literally or not? What was the root word that was loosely translated as "obey" and was that the King James verson?
Stan made sure he took all the applicable tools with him — didn’t he trust me? — but he failed to factor in the neighbor’s fully stocked garage and willingness to help. Conveniently, Neil Dennin was home and let me borrow his saw. It didn’t take too much work to pry off the ugly board, cut the sheetrock out with a razor blade knife, and saw off the exposed and now hazardous 2 x 4’s sticking up. There. What’s for lunch?
It didn’t take Stan long to sense there was something different when he walked in the door. That ol’ Stan is pretty sharp especially when walls are … gone. Guess we have to do something before the kids flip over into the lower level and hurt themselves. Had Stan not had such a good nature, I think I would have been flipped over.
So, off I went to the lumber yard to procure some spindles, a post, and a handrail, and call Mom and Dad to see if they aren’t doing anything special and want to travel 500 miles to install them. They came. Dad put the spindles in. Upside down. It looked great.
I’m really proud of that home improvement. The best part was the look on Stan’s face that day when he came home to find the railwall … gone. It was one of those Wazoo moments in time. I wish I had a picture.
