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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