There are no ghosts here, as far as I can tell. Though, I've only been calling this place home for a month, so suppose I can't be certain. Perhaps they're just shy, quiet, or exceedingly polite. Though, when I cannot perceive the thoughts, feelings and worries of living people with any skill, then how could I expect to sense such things in the deceased. Nonetheless, there are however, visible remnants of her past, that even a dope like me can see. An old workbench rests under a thick layer of dust and spider webs, in a basement with walls of brick and an old cement floor, one that was laid in 1888, and has yet to crumble and disappear as most things have from that particular year.
These dusty and unused relics, inside of a newly revitalized home, resonate with me all too personally.
Her peaked roof spies Lake Michigan from the modest hill upon which she rests. Barely visible, as a result of other homes to her east as well as the new spring foliage, the water-filled trough carved by an ancient mile deep glacier is undoubtedly near, as proven by the occasional sea gull squawk. The home stands proud, sturdy, and handsome both inside and out a mere three blocks from the icy deep. There is almost nothing remaining of her former, dilapidated, uncared for, and conquered self. This is most certainly a good thing. For, if you knew her before this, you would not have liked what you'd have seen.
When I found her, it seemed that my year long vagrancy, though extended beyond simply one year, had come to an end. I have planted my feet into this soil, and am allowing myself to twist and turn deeper into that earth and take root.
I am now an arithmetic year older, but far older still as measured by life itself.... whatever that means. But, I suspect you understand what I mean to say. You see, my vocabulary now includes words like 'escrow' and 'property taxes'. I have the immediate desire to tinker with things around the house (and add the word 'tinker' to my list of new words). My favorite places to spend money have gone from the Homebrew supply shop, to places like Home Depot and Lowe's. I spend less time listening to broken heart, break-up, punk song ballads and more time listening to nautically themed Decemberists songs. I am contented and oddly disturbed in the same moment. But what disturbs me is how undisturbed I am by it all.
I feel older. I feel less my former self, for better or worse.
No, it was not simply the act of buying a house that made such a change occur. Though, it may have capitulated it. No singular thing could, or has, created this change. I would guess that it's been a great number of things over the years that have brought me to this place. This house, and that old workbench in the basement, have simply made me see it with some degree of clarity.
This house was vastly different a few years ago. An older couple lived here for thirty-some years, then, as people do, grew old, sick, and had to leave their home. They moved to an assisted living community in the area, where the husband died, and the wife still resides. When they lived here, the home itself was full. Full of life, family, different furniture than today, different conversations, smells, appliances and tools. All the while, the workbench sat amongst these tools, useful and busy, helping keep the home alive, and creating much of its beauty both then and now. All the while, it sat then in the same place as it does today. Then abruptly, the house went quiet, and was alone for a number of years, until a couple of people found it, purchased it, and brought it back to life. It had to be torn down to the studs to make it what it is today. But, they kept what they could (which was quite a lot, in fact) of the old character of the house. The built-in china cabinets remain, the original woodwork is impressive still, and the leaded glass windows shine.... all with new minor facelifts. Throughout all of this, untouched in the basement sat the workbench, collecting dust.
It seems to me, as I stare at this dirty, grimy, but very promising workbench, that this house and I have been speeding towards each other for some time now. Like it, I had been very different some years ago, and then was empty for some time. The years had slowly picked away at my siding, foundation, and insides, deliberately rebuilding a Newhouse along the way. (get it?) Now, what's left over, when I really look at it critically, is difficult to recognize.... though some of my woodwork and leaded windows remain.
I am different. I am a New House. But, I am yet a home. The work is left undone.
When I look deep down into myself, down my creaky stairs, through my cold cement basement, and into my dimly lit workshop, I see my old workbench. It is untouched, unblemished, and still unused. It is the last bit of me that has remained unchanged through this rebuilding process. It was protected from these changes by keeping itself hidden, or by allowing me to keep it hidden. I can see the layers of dust piled atop its face. I smell it, as I easily wipe some away, sending particles wildly riding through the stale air, revealing an intact treasure; with its sturdy metal legs and beautiful hardwood surfaces - albeit, weathered through the years, but more beautiful for it. It is calling out for ME to restore it. As I look at it, I realize that it can be renewed and used yet again. It has its best years ahead of it, and will be the heart of my home once again. It will take some work, yes, but this is my charge alone.
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