Deidra Alexander's Blog

May 23

Charlie was ensconced in the little back room he’d converted to an office. There was floor to ceiling bookshelves, a large desk, three computers and stereo equipment that made me wish we’d sound proofed before he moved in. I was itching to make it my next project, but he had me swear not to touch it when he’d first moved in. There were boxes in there whose contents hadn’t seen the light of day since he was in college, but now were off limits to me. I should never have made that promise. How long after you’re married do you have to wait before you break a promise?

It had been a little over three years since Charlie first rang my doorbell. He was the new youth minister. The youth group had been meeting in my house since my son, Logan was nine.

The attraction wasn’t instant for either of us. Whenever I was around he seemed to be explaining lawn maintenance. I had a lawn service, why did I need to marry one?

Our friends were always trying to set us up. Finally I asked him out for coffee to shut them up. We met at a little coffee shop. He was discussing black hole theories. I realized he was smarter than I thought.

He explained how that affected his theory of predestination, whether God already knows if you’ll choose Christianity. Then I realized he was smarter than me.

After that we started seeing a lot more of each other. I hadn’t intended to remarry after one failed attempt. But when I looked into his eyes, there was an intensity there I’d never seen anywhere else. I was captivated by him, his intellect and his sense of purpose.  We were married less than a year after we began dating.

I have to tell Charlie. But what am I going to say? Hey Charlie, we’ve only been married for a year and I have an illness that’s probably terminal. I need you to stop what you’re doing and play nursemaid. How’s that fair?

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May 22

I had fallen in love with my house as surely as I had with any man. It wasn’t a house of aluminum or vinyl siding and a tidy little lawn. It was a strong stone house with a large meandering lawn shrouded in the shade of old oaks and pecans. It’s strong, rugged appearance appealed to me.

The deep shade of the porches wrapped the long, low house, providing the perfect retreat from the hot Texas summers. The old tin roof had seen almost a hundred summers. Unfortunately, it was the first thing to go, replaced by a rusty red version.

The wood floors were worn smooth from generations of feet padding through the large rooms under the high ceilings. The plank and beam ceilings had been blanketed with thick white paint when I moved in. No amount of caustic chemicals or scraping was able to completely lift it. The white still clung to the pores and cracks of the silvery wood. The old owners could never be completely erased, each generation leaving something for the next. I liked that thought.

In the early morning I was alone, barefoot on the porch, looking out over the lush green carpet down to the little creek. Pink and white azaleas lined the near bank with hostas, ferns and ivy on the far side. In back was a workshop painted a paling sky blue. The tall gables and large windows beckoned to me almost as much as the house. It would be the perfect guest house. But that was a plan for someday.

The main house wasn’t in the best of shape, but I was eager to bring this country remnant from the past back to life. And now listening to the rain on the roof, relaxing on the long deep porches, or sitting within the whitewashed stone walls, under the planked ceilings it was home.

I watched the tree branches waving slowly in the early morning breeze, the play of light glinting off the creek. Sitting in the aderondike chairs, I realized this house was the only thing I’ve ever really planned in my life. I spent months and months deciding every move that would be made. I hadn’t spent half that much time, figuring out what I wanted to do with me.

Once you have a family, you have responsibility you can’t just quit work and do what you want. You still have to earn a living. With a child to put through college, I had to be practical. I should want what I’m good at, what I can make money at. That would be the easy course.

Allie found me in my contemplative state, sipping tea. Margo says I need to hydrate, to get ready.

“We did a good job out here,” she said, plopping down beside me.

“Yea, this part is mostly your work.”

Allie came by almost every day when I first bought the house, painting, scraping and scrubbing. I ran out of ideas when it came to the garden, so she took over. She put the plan together. I hardly knew the names of any of the plants. She had been the one at Grandma’s side helping in the garden.

We sat for a while in silence.

“What did you want to be when you were a child?” I finally asked.

“Malibu Barbie,” she replied without hesitating. “You?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why?”

“I’ve been thinking maybe I should start my own property management company.”

“You should, everyone says you should,” Allie agreed.

“I just don’t feel it’s enough.”

It was enough until a few weeks ago. Why doesn’t it seem to be enough anymore? So I’m sick, that doesn’t mean I still don’t have forever, does it?

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May 20

When I went in to work, everything was the same. The candy dish was still on the counter. The receptionist was still answering the phones. The coffee was bubbling away as usual. Everything was the same except me.

I normally love the dark wood paneling and the logo, a sailboat superimposed over a compass, etched in the glass doors. The etching sparkles in the morning sun, sending prisms of light across the front of the reception desk. The counters covered in dark granite with streaks of green and aqua lights are cool to the touch during the hot summers. Usually the office looked rich, successful, stable. Today it looked dark, oppressive, ominous.

I sat at my desk looking at the report I spent ten hours putting together Friday. Why did I spend that time away from my family? No one cared if that report was finished Friday, today or tomorrow.

My reports that were so important last week, helped people make decisions. Decisions about whether to buy, sell, or develop properties. That’s what we did, develop and manage properties. At least, that’s what they did. I wasn’t sure what I did anymore.

This report listed all of the vacant space that needed to be leased. There was a couple of suites in a medical building, the fourth floor in a downtown office building, and an empty retail space two thousand square feet next to an anchor tenant in one of our strip shopping centers. Good space, should lease easily. The list went on.

Taking numbers and data and turning it into pictures and graphs. That’s what I did. I spent time from my husband and son writing a report about empty space, air, nothing.

All morning my office door kept opening. People coming and going, complaining as they always do. A salesman felt his territory had been encroached on. The receptionist didn’t get her break. Someone was taking lunches out of the refrigerator again. Everyone was looking to me to mediate the complaints. They came to me expecting understanding and solutions. But like the empty report on my empty desk, today I could only looked at them with empty eyes.

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