Mountain Mama

Being at home

I confess: I've been feeling a little house dissatisfaction lately. Disliking the unreachable cobwebs and impossible-to-keep-clean windows and crappy cabinets and lack of a place for Paul to work and the kids' never-organized-or-put-away toys and the everlastingly dirty floor and the rug I never liked and the cheapo always-slipping couch slipcover and the upholstery coming off the ottoman and the stuff piled in the corners of my bedroom.

I fantasize a family/play room, a wood stove, a workspace, more bookshelves, nicer dining room chairs, new upholstery. A real kitchen with actual storage and drawers that work.

Amanda Soule's new house (and the fact that they have time and money to fix it up) doesn't help. Christmas coming (with its possibilities for entertaining) doesn't help. My lack of time and poor housekeeping skills don't help.

When we were living in Raleigh, our most favorite pastime was looking at houses for sale. Seriously. We spent nearly every available weekend walking through endless new developments, open houses, new construction. We lived for the annual Parade of Homes. For a while we even had a lot and were bidding out to builders our "dream home". HG TV was our favorite channel, Fine Homebuilding a favorite bookstore browse. It was nearly an obsession.

When we first moved here, of course, we drove and drove. Up every dirt road with a "For Sale" sign and many without. We had changed our definition of  "dream home" and were focused on a different set of features than in Raleigh (view, lay of the land, etc). But we were still always looking for the next best thing.

Once we found this place our house obsession stopped. Or at least mine did. I no longer surfed Real Estate websites, searched the MLS listings, detoured through neighborhoods. I was no longer interested in decorating magazines, TV shows about houses. (Although I still wouldn't mind having the big white farmhouse and its 76 acres across the way, or the 42 acres with 1600 ft of creek frontage down the road).

But the other day, fueled by the dissatisfaction described above, I looked. You see, I've been noticing more and more homes for sale in this area. Some are homes we admired when we first came here--or before we came here. Some are places I've noticed in passing. Some are new to my attention. So, I went Online, and I looked. I took virtual tours, went through all of the photos for each listing that had them, tried to discern locations. I poured over it for about two hours.

And the funny thing is, with each house I looked at, I grew more and more happy with exactly what I have. This one is nice but it's on a main road with traffic; this one lacks the long view we have; this one has a too-steep yard, no place for a garden or for the kids to play; none of them have the wrap-around porch I love so much, not to mention my father next door.

When I shut down the computer and looked around, I still saw the sources of my unease, but I saw them as temporary, fixable. I realized that very few of the "problems" have anything to do with the house itself and those that do are changeable--someday.

In the mean time, I can clean the windows, clean everything better, organize the toys and get rid of a bunch of them, train my girls to stop treating me as a maid, rearrange stuff for better flow, get actual custom slipcovers.

Then I can step out onto my porch and play with my girls while my beautiful mountains stand as the backdrop. And I can enjoy being at home. Happily at home.

PS: You might be interested in this post from two years ago, in which I gave a photographic tour of my house. Some things have changed: we've added a play kitchen, a bookcase, switched out the crib for a real bed, cleaned out the unfinished basement a couple of times, stapled Owen's art to the LR/DR walls, changed the tablecloth. The baby grew. And the dog in the photo is gone :(. But it's still a pretty accurate tour.

 

collecting beautiful

from my journal: Oct 15, 2010

The leaves along the sidewalk at Owen's school are so lovely, so striking I couldn't help but pick some up for her yesterday as I waited for the bell. Red, heart-shaped leaves, bright yellow maple dancers.

Today as were walking to the car, I reached to take her backpack from her, and she warned me.

"It's really full, Mom," she said.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, I packed it full of leaves."

"Leaves?"

"Yeah, I gathered up all the leaves I could find at recess. Emma helped. Sarah too."

"Why?"

She looked at me quizzically. "Because they're beautiful."

Of course.

 

Why we live here

One year ago, today:

Yesterday:

We ate brunch with friends who live in the Triangle--where we used to live. After brunch, they got in their car and headed up I-40 for the long ride home. Six years ago, we would have been doing the same, but we would have been lamenting the trip, at near tears for having to leave our beloved mountains. This time--as last year at this time--we instead turned our car toward those mountains, drove up the Blue Ridge Parkway to the top of the world, and breathed our gratitude.

Never shall we forget the blessings of this place.

Everyday view

Daily I drive this length of road. Along the river, winding through the narrow valley, then turn where the creek arrives after its long descent and joins with the larger waters. Follow the creek up and through the trees beside pockets of land rich enough for a couple of centuries of farming. Even the ancient native peoples knew this to be a good place. Knew this creek, these fields, these trees, the glory of the changing seasons here.

I would complain of the loss of small farms, the houses sprung here and there, but I am part of that. My home less than five years old in a (small) development of  even newer homes. And that's not what I want to say anyway.

I want to say that I see it all. Every day I drive this length of road and I truly see it. There is never a time of drifting away on my commute, never a time I do not remember how I get where I am going.

Morning, afternoon, sometimes in the evening, I see the smooth beauty of  the water sliding or falling  or bubbling over the rocks. I see the wildlife--the heron in the shadows, the deer in the field, the kingfisher, the cardinal. I see the changing light on the mountains, the shifting colors.

And while I do not always heed the voice in my head that tells me to "pull over, take a picture" (as I finally did today), while I don't always listen...

I do see.

And I am always grateful.

To see the day

Saturday morning. Round of pancakes. Stepped outside to take the trash out and leaves crunched under my feet. They suddenly looked so beautiful, scattered across the deck like that, that I ran back in & grabbed my camera.

I spent the rest of the day under the spell of newly opened eyes. Vowed to see the day in all its lovely ordinariness.

At my house, and later at my mom's, these are the images I gathered. This is the life I saw around me.

Beautiful indeed.

Choosing the moment

She got a new bike. With a bell.

She's been wanting one for some time, had already added it to her Christmas list, when her cousin showed up at Grandma's with just the thing, outgrown. "I have a bike for Owen. Is it okay to give it to her?" 

Of course she's thrilled. Paul pushed her up and down Grandma's road--the same road where he learned to ride. Back home it's round and round the house on the porch. Our road is rutted, gravel, too difficult for a learner to navigate.

Another day, after supper, she presented an idea. "Can you take the training wheels off my bike and let me ride around the porch?"

Paul, working on his computer, considered. "I don't think the porch is the best place to learn. We need to take you to the park to ride sometime."

"Can we go now?" she asked.

Paul looked at me, my face buried in my own computer. Dinner was done. It was two hours until bedtime. He was playing Sudoku, I was on Facebook. There was nothing pressing really, except inertia.

Clearly our attention was needed. So we all went. Barrett, too. Even my mom.

And although the whole scene has been replayed thousands of times each of a hundred years--a father running alongside a kid on wobbly bike--this time it was my kid. And my kid's dad. And my toddler chasing after them.

My family. Our moment.

I'm so glad I didn't miss it.

 

lessons in joy

Dad catches me coming into the building at work. He holds up a plastic grocery bag and grins.

"Got a treat for lunch."  He's excited as a young boy with a bag full of worms. (It's not worms.)

Later he spreads a newspaper across his desk, hands me a knife and a small jar of mayonnaise (Duke's, of course), two slices of soft bread.

He holds the tomato reverently--a beauty fresh from the garden this morning. Slices it thick, piles it on the bread. Lots of pepper, a little salt. Seeds and pulp drip onto the paper as he hands the first one over to me and makes another for himself.

As we each take a bite, closing our eyes for a moment, it strikes me: This is who he is. This is what he's taught me.

To savor. Enjoy. Take pleasure in the small things. See the beauty in the summer's first tomato sandwich, a bucket of purple blackberries, a hidden trillium,  the smooth speckled skin of a trout, a watermelon in the compost pile, a beautifully written sentence, a shared meal.

That a beautiful life is made of small moments of joy...noticed.

How quickly I forget

A day spent at the bookstore. Coffee drink and browsing art books, craft books, cookbooks. Eavesdropping in the cafe. I decide to buy this book.

Later I tell Paul: "I'm feeling the itch to do something artistic. I'm thinking about trying collage."

With his usual sharp wit and insight, he says, "Maybe you should try photography. You could take pictures every day, maybe take a class online. You could even start a blog to showcase your photos. Or  two blogs."

I'm starting to get what he's saying. Slowly.

"Or maybe you could write..." He smiles before moving out of the room.

He's being sarcastic, of course. But he's also right. And he is, in his way, reminding me gently once again that "Who I am is enough."

How quickly I forget.

Wordless Wednesday

Wordless Wednesday