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Multigenerational Mom Muses on Twin Toddlers & Twenty-Something Daughters

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The Haunting Remodel of Hill House: Try, Cry, Why, Try?

Consider this: I’ve never remodeled a house before. I find it daunting. Terrifying. All-consuming. Every whisper. Every waking hour. I’m choosing my possessions. Trying to keep up with it all. 

I feel possessed. Paint colors haunt my newsfeeds. Floor choices haunt my thoughts. So many hazards, so many missteps, so much room for error. 

What if all these favorites come flailing around and now I’ve done… too much? 

What if they look garish together? Hideous. What if they clash like a room full of drunk uncles? Like I was drunk myself when I picked them all out? I’m haunted by the possibilities.

Case in point, I found this modern sputnik light fixture with jutting black appendages and amber Edison bulbs. It spoke to me of my inventor father and his love of physics and Russia. It’s destined to orbit over the kitchen table. Still… how will vintage space race get along with an apron sink and schoolhouse pendants above an island not four feet away? 

Can I smash centuries together without causing chaos — a wrinkle in time that destroys the peace of the entire project? 

I hate chaos. I like calm. I like soothing and lyrical. Creamy neutrals. Warm whites, muted golds, flat black. 

But along with that daring sci-fi find, I’ve also discovered a saturated paint color, dark and brooding. And I do like me some dark. 

I guess I like my house like I like my literature — soothing and lyrical, but with an undercurrent of secrets, of storied histories. 

But southern gothic meets science fiction?!? 

Is that even a thing? Should that even be a thing? Because Lord knows, I don’t want farce, and parody is not the look I’m going for. I want original and authentic, full of harmony, but with an undercurrent of designed tension. 

I really want this whole design process to be like writing — chasing the best possible word to build the best possible story. And it sort of is, honestly. It’s full of fun and promise and a whole lot of hard work. And a whole lot of fear, too… Will it be all that I’ve dreamed of? Will it be a success?

But then, it’s not like writing either. Because in writing, at least, you can keep editing — rework your mistakes until you strike the right chord, find that ringing, tonal clarity with the perfect, eclectic mix of characters. The one in the corner. The one in the spotlight. The brooding introvert, the flashy aunt, the absent-minded professor, the plump grandmother handing out gingersnaps and hugs. And then you add that one character. That mysterious outsider who brings tension and electricity. The one who’s losing her religion.

In writing, you’re the boss. If somebody does something out of character, or outside your plotline – they’ve said too much, or haven’t said enough — you strike. Their action or even their entire person. You’re god. 

Or… you’re not. The errant character with the giant misstep takes control. Because her mistake, you discover, is pure poetry. So you let her run with it. You go backwards. Return to chapter two and change the trajectory of the entire piece. Sometimes not being the boss in your writing is okay too.

But this is real life. And life is bigger. And I don’t have that luxury. I don’t have that kind of money — to erase my purchases to accommodate the slip of the century. I wish I did. 

I feel like a hurt, lost and blinded fool, and I don’t know if I can do this. 

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for I know the plans I have for you

Here I sit, another day up and at ‘em inside the dark tunnel of Dawn’s nether-regions. I wanted to sleep in. I really did. But apparently the universe has other plans in mind, so I’m up. And I’m writing. And honestly, writing is where I want to be. What I want to do. And so I follow my calling and I swallow my coffee and I stretch my fingers to the task. 

I’m thinking as I toil away at this memoir and toil away at ideas for our new house (she’s all ours now!) that perhaps I’ll weave the two together. A sort of rebirth of a home and a life. A new chapter, born from the ashes of the old. A phoenix rising.

And I say that, but the past wasn’t a complete, combustible disaster, razed to the ground and smoldering. For either one of us. Both histories have provided rich ground for a remodel. A new life born of the dust of the old, ready to germinate and grow.

Both me and this house, we have good genetics and good bones.

Some bad choices were made along the way, of course. The makeover is long overdo. Both our edges are weathered and worn. We’ve got harried histories and some significant split ends.

But we’ve got pasts that deserve to be preserved. Because the pasts from which we’ve entered the present are storied ones. Compelling ones. 

I’ve heard from so many who know our new house. Their childhoods were spent inside her walls, playing with friends, sharing in sleepovers, babysitting or breaking bread in her generous kitchen. 

She’s always been among friends and family. And so have I. Even in the hardest times, there’ve always been those to rely on, to sustain us. 

And now the remodel is underway and the transformation can begin.

The cabinetmaker has been called. He’s sketching out the plans even now, as I type, singing along as He works,

For I know the plans I have for you…

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Variations on Being Called Home

So, something has happened – something sparkling and silver as a sunrise breaking through cloud cover.

I fell in love with a house — a quiet, steady house, lovely and understated, with a soul for nurturing and a heart that yearns for forever. 

She’s an all-brick ranch, huddled into the hillside of an established, tree-lined neighborhood amidst a hodgepodge of other beautiful homes — gabled colonials, brick saltboxes, sanguine split levels, mid-century moderns. Our grand dame sits close to the base of the hill, a welcoming matriarch eager to pour smiles and love into our family.  

We stumbled upon her unexpectedly. Well, stumbled isn’t quite the word. God dropped us in front of her. He tossed us into her path, our promised land after wandering in the wilderness of my darkest year. We weren’t looking for her, but she found us still.

Whenever traffic is congested at the primary school during drop off, we often cut up the hill on Maple to sidestep the quagmire. As we climbed our way a couple weeks back, we spied a freshly planted FOR SALE sign in the front of this sweet-tempered beauty and were instantly smitten. We booked an appointment for that afternoon and had made an offer by that very night.

She’s a prize more precious than rubies and pearls, this beauty of ours. Comfort and joy made manifest. Light pours through her windows in thick, honeyed ribbons. Sweetness fills her spaces with echoes of the past and dreams of the future. Her flagstone front porch whispers “Come sit in my shade for a spell… or forever more.” And, indeed, she sings to us of a lifetime. Of a lifetime raising our boys to the beat of her heart; of holiday visits with my grown daughters and their families; of summertime vegetable plots and crisp autumn cookouts. 

We fell into her lap with an ease impossible outside of destiny. An impossible catch, but somehow caught. We didn’t do it; God did. He brought us to her and she opened her arms and all the moving pieces slipped into place like only the hand of the Divine can craft. She’s been easy like Sunday morning from the get go. And Heaven knows, I needed some easy.

It’s no secret its been a tough year for me. Dad passed away in November and his death has left me reeling. My siblings and I have been managing his estate. It has been a tender and painful process, sifting through all the bits and pieces (large and small) that were so much a part of his life and ours. Trying to decide what to sell and what to keep has torn at our hearts. Knowing others would be handling the tools he loved and tended, living inside the walls that sheltered him, driving the tractor and truck he so deeply prized… it has all been so very hard. 

There were days it felt so impossible and so – for lack of a better word – vulgar. People pawing over Dad’s things and us allowing it… like we were parceling off the life of our father to the highest bidder. 

Mike and I learned that this Maple Street home housed a similar story. Two daughters have been handling their parents’ estate, a recent double loss, participating in so many of the hard necessaries that we’ve been enduring. When we heard their story, we felt kindred spirits with both the heirs and the home that housed their most precious memories. We were drawn to their parallel tales of grief and beauty, and to the house and her sheltering, nurturing soul.

We knew for certain this was where our destiny lay.

She is indeed a grand dame, with strong bones and a good heart. Her grace and faithfulness has been well-documented in the lives of the family that has come before us. And today she’ll be ours. Today, she’ll begin bearing witness to our own family’s story.

I look forward to recording them with her.

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