In Search of the Perfect House

It doesn't exist, this perfect house I've built in my mind. 

Rick and I have been house hunting now for months. We need to choose one and be done with the search. The only other house I've ever owned was in Windsor, Colorado. I knew it was the house I wanted to raise my kids in the second I set foot in it. There was never any question; 900 Juniper Drive was home.

Finding the house we want is proving more difficult this time around. For one thing, Rick and I come from vastly different backgrounds. In all honesty, I could live in a primitive log cabin and be perfectly happy. Do I love the jacuzzi?Absolutely. Do I like living on the water? More than I can say. Is having an elevator in my home a necessity? Ummm, no. It moves at the speed of smell, as Max would say.

But my relationship with luxury is relatively young, and at 47, I know this about myself: I prefer the simplicity that comes with not having much in the way of material things. I would like to have room for a piano. I need a functional, brightly lit home office. And I want--almost more than anything else I could ever think of--a big porch or deck. No one uses a porch more than I do. Seriously...if it has a cover, I will likely live on it. If not, I will likely live on it. That would be me, bundled up in layers, boots and gloves covering my appendages, sitting on the porch swing or rocking chair in the middle of winter. I love the cold. I love the snow. And I love swingin' and rockin'.

We have toured homes of 5000+ square feet, and we will tour one this weekend that is just under 3000 square feet. We have walked through homes in the woods and homes on the water. We have admired the views from expansive backyards and lamented the absence of wood-burning fireplaces. We have appreciated functional floor plans and questioned decorating tastes (What were they thinking, installing pale pink seashell-shaped sinks?). We have toured a home built in 1901, one constructed in 2007, and many that were erected sometime in between. After seeing about eight houses, we can remember aspects of each one we saw and put them together to build the perfect house for our family.

But the reality is this: No one house is going to provide everything we'd like to have, be that desire big or small. We can build on or install those aspects of a house we truly want if necessary. We can knock down walls and add skylights. Rick reminds me that what will make our house special is turning it into a home, and he has faith that I can make that happen in any setting. His confidence makes me smile, because I know that what makes a house a home is the sound of laughter, the squabbling of siblings, and the knowledge that within those walls, we are all beloved.

Yeah, I can do that.

2011: An Evolutionary Year

Wow. Time passes so quickly when you're immersed in living. I last posted a column several months ago, though I've thought many times to myself, "Oh! This would make a great essay!" as an intriguing idea or topic coursed through my brain. Unfortunately, I'm still trying to acclimate to waking at 6:00 almost daily; by 9:30pm, I'm wiped out. And those hours in between are spent working, ferrying kids back and forth, fixing meals, shopping for meals, or trying to keep up with this giant house and its many needs. I, a voracious reader, have not cracked open a book in weeks. That's criminal.

But it's almost my birthday, and that is the time of year at which I look back and take stock of my life. I will turn 47 this weekend. Forty-seven! That's almost 50. That's almost a half-century. That's almost...old. Older. Kind of old. I am grinning as I type because no matter how I word it, 47 is older than I ever thought I would live to be. I'm sure if Dad is reading this, he can remember when I, in all seriousness, declared my certainty that I would not make it past 19 because everyone on the planet annoyed the shit out of me. I am returning that favor to my teenagers these days, who find me obnoxiously annoying simply because I draw breath. I've tried to accommodate them by experimenting with ways to inhale and exhale (read: live) without actually opening my airways. Fun Fact: It's impossible. And so...I annoy them.

But seriously, as I recollect the past 365 days of my existence, I marvel at how different my life is now compared to then. When we are actually in the moments that comprise our days, it is nearly impossible to recognize those that will eventually be acknowledged as life-altering. But reflection offers crystal-clear magnification; it allows us to view our lives as a sort of slide show. Oh, look! There's Becky and Tavia holding up the Christmas tree that wants so badly to fall over, and hey! Here come's Tuck through the front door to save the day. 

Another slide reveals a surprised and visibly elated Tuck as his eclectic group of friends surround him in celebration of his 15th birthday in what Tuck eventually described as the best party he's ever had. 

And in another scene, there I am, packing boxes and crying because I'm thoroughly exhausted and torn between needing to move on and not wanting to move my kids from the only home (and community, and friends) they've ever known.

I watch as the kids and I make the monumentally difficult decision to let go of our beloved Oliver, whose seizures claimed his canine dignity and comfort. We surround him with love there on the vet's office floor as he takes his last breath and gently lays his head in my hand. We say goodbye.

In my mind's eye I see myself growing more frustrated and beleaguered as I try to maintain the house I sacrificed to stay in all those years, the one I lovingly painted and decorated and made into a home. I can't physically do it alone. I can't stay there, being told that it's not really my house anyway, that somehow, all the sweat equity I've accrued over the 12 years means nothing. I weep, for all the disappointment and loss. And then I resolve to keep my splintered family together because whether these kids know it or not, we are strong enough to start over somewhere else and create something wonderful. Different, yes. But wonderful nonetheless.

My brain cannot think of the most challenging moments without also conjuring memories of those most rewarding and enriching. I see myself in Mexico with Rick, where we slept late and indulged ourselves in whatever way we felt like indulging. Time ceased to exist, and we just enjoyed basking in each other's company. The breathtaking sunsets and crashing waves of the Caribbean didn't hurt, either.

I see Rick again, reaching out to my kids with patience and a genuine desire to make them feel comfortable. He knows it's a tough crowd. My kids are loving, but they're products of my influence: They say what they think and they aren't exactly in a place of great trust. I watch as he gently enters the sphere of this family in a manner that is at once cautious and yet oddly confident. He recognizes the importance of building relationships with my children; he knows I value their feelings and opinions. He understands that to embrace me is also to embrace my tribe. As weeks pass, I watch them accept him, welcome him, tread easier around him. He is with us when he can be, and we always look forward to his arrival.

As the year winds to a close, I see us pile into the van: Max, Tuck, Bella, and I (Tavi stayed in Windsor a few days longer), along with our two remaining dogs, Kya and Scout. We drive 2000 miles across the country and I marvel that the trip is so uneventful and, well, smooth. Ok, as smooth as it can be with four people and two dogs in an enclosed, moving vehicle. All in all, that trip could have been a nightmare and was pleasantly not.

Then there we are, Max having left for foreign shores, the three kids and I searching for our place in this new community. There are good points and bad, and in my most recent poll, I am told by all three that they would not choose to be living in Colorado now. Yes, they miss their friends. Very much. Yes, Bella misses her dad. Yes, school is better in some ways, worse in others. Typical issues that accompany a typical move. I miss my friends too, achingly so. I miss my old office, which was beautiful and bright and the only space I've ever occupied that felt like it was truly and only mine. 

But we are adjusting and finding things to appreciate: Bella and I especially love the ocean that sits right outside our front door. We love to go down to our pier, where I relax and she explores, showing me her found treasures. Tavi marvels at how quickly she's made friends, good friends, and how easily she transitioned into her school. Tuck has arguably struggled the most, but he also was the one who left the most behind, being oldest and having just embarked on a music career. But even he has found a core group of friends and has begun performing publicly. And we are all lucky because those people we love visit us. Our dear friends Jennie and Tim stayed for a few days. My sister was here to help us with the move. The girls' dad has visited once. Tavi's friend Ali just spent a week with us, and Tuck's friend Dakota will be here on Friday. I'm pretty certain to see Wendy and Tami here in Vacationland before 2012 comes to a close, and the girls are going back to Colorado for the second time in four months this weekend.

We are learning a lot. The move, which foisted our little gang into unfamiliar territory, brought us even closer. We have relied on one another in ways we didn't before, and I realized not long ago, as we sat around the dinner table and laughed and sang and talked, that my kids are friends. A stranger remarked on this phenomenon a couple weeks ago, when Max was visiting and we all were out together. She was amazed at how much my kids seem to like each other, and how much fun they had just talking with one another. I think our self-imposed exile from all that we had known made us appreciate each other more, even as we continue to fight and argue about things we one day will look back on and wonder why.

I also believe that this leap of faith has served to show my children how resilient and strong they are. What they did was not easy, and each has exacted a toll from me in his or her own way. I accept that, because what I essentially did was ask them to trust me, to believe in my wisdom, to blindly go far away. I asked them to think back on their own lives and consider if I had ever let them down or led them astray. I asked them if I'd ever lied to them, or even put my own needs or desires ahead of theirs. They knew I had not, and so they reluctantly took the leap with me. And ever so slowly, their new lives are unfolding. And whaddya know? Those lives aren't too shabby.

It's been a tough year. A tender year. An evolutionary year. A year that serves to remind that we are never too old to change, to grow, to risk. It's been a year that underscores the value in staying true to oneself, in recognizing a good thing when you see it and holding onto it. A year that reminded me that struggle is part of the glory, and trusting my gut is always the right thing to do. 

And so I embark on my 48th year with gusto and a belief that the good I put out into the world is coming back to me in spades. I have the love of a solid man and love him back like nobody's business; my children are good, interesting people whom I adore; I get paid to do something I love, which in turn helps keep my family going; and I find something to laugh about every day. I wake up to the sound of sea gulls every morning and coffee brewing in the kitchen. I regret little and have much to appreciate.

I am joyful.

So This is Maine

I write this sitting on the sofa in what we call the "main room" while listening to Seals & Crofts. To my left is a fireplace, where a fire is roaring. To my right, on the floor, lies Kya, our beloved pit bull-lab; she is keeping my feet warm with her massive body. The view from where I sit is noteworthy: Rain is coming down in sheets, sometimes sideways, other times, all whirly and swooshy. The leaves on the trees that line our side of the inlet are red and orange, gold and green. The leaves on the other side of the water are still green.Wind keeps the scenery ever-shifting as trees sway and the water current swiftly churns. The tide will come in later today, as it always does, and the water line will be higher than usual.

I love being here.

The kids and I have lived here now for six weeks. We are still transitioning, and probably will be for quite some time. We've already had sleepovers, and we are learning shortcuts to the places we like to go. Tuck has found fellow musicians with whom he plays, and he has his first gig this coming Saturday in Portsmouth, NH. The girls and I have already stormed the public library, which is housed in two old buildings across the street from each other. I laughed when I realized that, instead of moving into one new, bigger building, it just adapted to the space it already had and made do. And you know what? It's exactly as it ought to be. Bella thinks the older building should have a ghost who haunts the top floor, where the young adult books are shelved. I agree; it's just that kind of place.

School has arguably been the most difficult transition for the kids to handle. Tuck went from a high school of 1200 students to one of 280. Within the first week, he knew basically everyone, and boy, did everyone know him. And somehow, before the week was out, kids at the middle school knew Tavia was Tuck's sister, though they don't even share a last name and the schools are not geographically close to one another. Word travels quickly in a small town, and though I had warned the kids that they would be looked upon as minor celebrities (I've been down this road myself, in high school) for at least a while, I don't think they believed me. Now that girls are after Tavia so that they can get to Tuck, I think my kids are getting the picture.

Tavi and Bella go to the same school, grades 4-8, student population of around 350 or so. They're already taking NECAPS (pronounced kneecaps), the Maine equivalent of CSAPs. Why they're taken so early in the school year, I don't know. And I've been asked by Bella's writing teacher to come in and make a presentation to the class about the importance of editing, much like I did at Skyview in Windsor. Looks like I will be teaching a creative writing class, too, for 6-8th graders during what they call CREW time, which is the same as a study hall. Academically, the school is decent. Athletically, not so much. Tavi dropped out of cross country because she felt it wasn't coached very well or effectively. Tried to sign up for soccer then, but it was too late. She's considering trying out for basketball now.

As small as we are here in Kittery Point, the kids have found things to occupy their time. Tuck continues with his music and has begun giving me guitar lessons (woo hoo!). How fortuitous is this: Two houses away from ours lives the owner of the York Harbor Inn, a restaurant and lounge. In his basement is a 16-track recording studio, and he gave Tuck an open invitation to take advantage of it whenever he wants. And the lounge has open mic night every Thursday beginning in November. My boy is heading down to Boston this weekend for his first concert at the House of Blues. Has another one to attend on Tuesday. He'll take the bus there and back. I like that he's broadening his autonomy while learning his way around a new city, doing something he loves to do. Life could be worse than being 15 and having the freedom to explore, maybe get lost, find his way, and return home to the comfort of his own family.

Tavi is enrolled in two dance classes at the dance academy in Portsmouth. She says they're hard-core and that she's learning a lot. She's considering auditioning for the school's honor choir, which joins other regional honor choirs to form one big group, and then they perform all over the place. She has also joined the school's yearbook staff. Come spring, she wants to audition for the regional theater troupe. Tavia? Drama? Really?

We arrived too late for Bella to sign up for the traveling soccer league (there weren't enough participants to have a local rec team), but she plans to sign up in the spring. She will begin violin lessons soon, as next week we make a trip into New Hampshire to fit her with a violin rental. Her interest in writing continues to develop, and she has joined the school's newspaper staff as a reporter.

As for me, I spent the first three weeks meeting just about every repairman in the area. Seriously, there were so many things that needed to be fixed in this house, I felt like Shelly Long in that movie "The Money Pit." I opened the mailbox and the door fell off. Rick flushed the toilet and nothing happened. The steam shower didn't steam, and the fireplace didn't light. To fix one thing sometimes meant damaging something else, so then that something else had to be fixed. It was unceasing. When things finally settled, I had deadlines, so that was two weeks of little else but work, and the last files for a book I'm writing were turned in this week. So here I am. 

There are many things to appreciate about my life here in rural Maine. Living on the ocean suits me well. I love to head down to our dock when the tide is coming in and the sun is shining and just...be. The water, the geese, the gentle sounds of the trees, the tugboats in the harbor, the scent...altogether, it offers a sense of solitude I find at once comforting and exhilarating. I appreciate the warm welcome my family has received--at Open House at the high school, several folks came up to me (admittedly, after staring at me for a while), shook my hand, and introduced themselves by telling me which house they lived in ("I live in the red house," "I'm in the yellow house next door," etc). I love how everyone here on our little hill has dogs, and no one cares if your dog visits them. So Kya and Scout have lots of friends, and it's kind of a canine free-for-all. I dig the weather. When it rains, it really rains. We've even already had flash floods and power outages (but seriously, what is this, compared to a tornado?). And when the sun shines, it reflects off the water with a brilliance that takes my breath away. Gratitude. It fills me with gratitude.

Other things, I'll have to get used to. I know many people well enough to say hello, but I don't have any real friends here (I know: it's been only 6 weeks). I miss my friends in Windsor more than words can express. I miss the connection, the being known and knowing them. It feels like so much work to start a new friendship at this stage of my life. Someone is going to really have to be something special for me to invest in. I'm not as generous with my time as I once was. On a more shallow note, I miss authentic Mexican food and melon margaritas from Guadalajara (the restaurant). I miss the convenience of being five minutes from the grocery store. Sidewalks. There are no continuous sidewalks here, and the roads are so narrow that you could high-five someone in a passing car without having to fully extend your arm. I'm not kidding.

So like all periods of transition and change, this one unravels one moment, one event at a time. The kids and I aren't always alone, as Rick comes in every other weekend, sometimes more often. His visits with us in Colorado were noteworthy because they were sporadic; the dynamic of the family would shift, even if only slightly. Now, though, he just seamlessly fits in...life continues as it does during the week, only now we have one more person to talk to, laugh with, consider. His presence is a great support for me on so many levels. His thoughtful input, his willingness to treat my kids as his own, his easy rapport with them...these are the things I've come to cherish. 

And for myself, this feeling of being truly seen unleashes in me a veritable tidal wave of emotion I didn't know I possessed. It owns me, and I willingly give myself to it. Because in this life, I have developed a strength borne of necessity, of the desire to survive and thrive. It is an unyielding strength, and I have relied upon it for as long as I can remember. But the strength Rick encourages in me is flexible. It builds on a sense of communion, of togetherness, of trust. The glory of it brings me to my knees, and it's just one more thing I add to my ever-growing list of things for which I am grateful.

So. This is Maine.

Packing Up, Taking Stock, Moving On: Thoughts on Leaving Home

My house has always been cluttered. I share an intimate love-hate relationship with "stuff," and though I've tried to change my evil ways, I have never succeeded. Now my stuff is in boxes, neatly labeled and stacked along the perimeter of rooms. Except when it's lying in the middle of the floor, or stuffed into bags to be put in the garage and unpacked later this week for our yard sale. One of my favorite things, my simple pleasures in life, is to walk through my home at night, when children are asleep and lights are dim. I have taken comfort in checking doors to be sure they're locked, in folding that last load of laundry (alas, never putting it away until I need an empty laundry basket), in replenishing the dogs' food and water bowls. Before bed, I blow out candles, kiss the dogs, turn out the lights.

To walk through this house at night now is to put one's life at risk. Scissors, tape rolls, boxes both full and flattened litter every square inch. Thumb tacks, nails, even stray pieces of (unchewed) gum threaten my bare feet. I am leaving Windsor; I am leaving this house I've called home for the past 13 years.

I never dreamed I'd be leaving this house until Bella graduated high school. I fell in love with the house itself the first time Wes and I walked through it in 1998. I admired it for its practicality. I loved the open floor plan and imagined watching my kids playing in the backyard while I cooked supper. I liked the idea of playing music on the stereo in the family room and being able to hear it upstairs. I craved the sunlight that I knew would pour through the living room window each morning. I could easily envision raising my family within these walls, and so I set out to make it a home.

We covered those stark white walls in vivid colors: periwinkle, fire-engine red, autumn leaf orange, sunshine yellow, lime green, cerulean blue, turquoise, aqua, terra cotta, purple. This house is a veritable palette of color, and it loyally reflects the personalities of the people who have inhabited it all these years. I painted furniture--wood benches, kitchen chairs, children's bookcases, chairs, stools and chests of drawers. I decorated the walls with kids' artwork and family photos, and my kitchen cupboards became bulletin boards for pages ripped from coloring books, messages of "I love you, mom," and other youthful masterpieces. Books filled every room, and my children grew up understanding that, with books, you never have to be bored or lonely.

As the kids grew, our home became a place in which their friends came to hang out. Just this past summer, it was nothing to find a half-dozen--often times, twice that--kids in Tuck's room (sometimes, when he wasn't even here) or gathered on the back patio, just talking, laughing, and generally kickin' it. Some of Tavi's friends have basically grown up here, so much so that when Tuck came through the door just last week and saw one of them at the kitchen table, he asked, "Do you live here now?" And he was serious. 

Kids who spent a lot of time here over the years were treated exactly as I treated my own. They got hugs, food, advice. They heard me yell when I got fed up, and they knew they were expected to respect the rules of our home or face the consequences. They heard me play piano and sing, lose complete control in fits of laughter, say bad words, apologize. Tuck has, over the years, lamented the fact that I don't act differently when his friends are over. He would prefer I have two personalities: one for public and one for private. That's never been my gig, though, so he's had to learn to deal with that. And when all is said and done, I believe that the kids who have returned to our home time and again know they are welcome, that in some cases, I dearly love them. As I contemplate the days ahead and know I will not see the faces of my children's friends, I feel a genuine sense of loss. They have been a major part of my own life.

A house is just a house; I know that. It is because I made it a home that it matters and means something. But still, I struggle with leaving this physical structure. This is where two of my four children took their first steps.  In this family room, the kids and I would push the furniture to the side, crank up the stereo, and dance like there was no tomorrow. Sometimes, other people's kids would join us in our joyful silliness. Scores of birthdays were celebrated in this house and the backyard. How many birthday candles were blown out at this kitchen table? These walls once vibrated with the sounds of Max learning to play piano and baritone, of Tavi's singing and learning to play piano, of Tuck learning to play guitar and trombone. There was nothing I liked more than to be in my upstairs office and hear Max and Tuck playing guitar and bass and sometimes even singing as the sounds drifted up through the floor vents. The bedroom walls brought comfort as I read bedtime stories with my children each night before tucking them in and telling them one final time that day how very much I loved them.

The memories aren't all good, of course. The master bedroom is where Wes and I lost our baby boy, and where I very nearly lost my own life in 1999. I sat at the kitchen table in disbelief as my sister hyperventilated over the phone, screaming that our mom was dead, in 2004. It was in these rooms--and yet so far beyond them, as well--that my relationship with Wes fell apart, into such a state of disrepair that there was no salvation for us. And it was here that I had to tell my children what that meant for them. 

And consequently, it is within these walls that the kids and I learned how to regroup and continue growing as a family in which the dynamic had changed but the love remained. So I feel a profound sadness at leaving this place that has seen countless milestones, been home to the people I love with a fierceness unparalleled by anything else I know. And yet I leave it also with a sense of excitement, of hope, of security and certainty that I have never known before in my life. I know that home is something carried in the heart. It is created and nurtured, not simply found. It is not so much a where, but a who, a communion of hearts and souls.

I guess, then, I'm leaving home to go . . . home.