I'd feel so rich in a hut for two
Two rooms and kitchen I'm sure would do
Give me just a plot of, not a lot of land
And thou swell, thou witty, thou grand*

When my parents moved to Mexico, they said they were looking for a simpler life, a smaller house, “just what we need.”

Three years later, they've sold their house two blocks from the beach and are in the process of building a new one, ON the beach. I'd mock them, but we've been promised first crack at the guest house, and I don't want to miss it.

There's a part of me, the urban cafe rat, that wishes we'd opted for a funky loft in downtown Dallas, instead of this huge house with rooms we don't yet use, but as much as the idea of downsizing appeals to me, the reality is, I like space. And options.

*”Thou Swell, Thou Witty,” as performed by Nat King Cole

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Hold tight wait till the partyâ™s over
Hold tight weâ™re in for nasty weather
There has got to be a way
Burning down the house

We learned the hard way that pewter melts, and that Franklin stoves get hot enough to melt it.

In our condo, we had a wood stove, and during our first Christmas party we stuck a DuraFlame log in it. This was actually the preferred substance for such stoves, especially in emissions-conscious California, but what they didn't tell us is that the instructions which warn against putting two logs on at once, are there for a reason.

At some point in the night we heard a sizzling sound, like water on a hot burner, and realized a silver sugar bowl had been melted into a plaque.

*”Burning Down the House,” Talking Heads

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Sunny came home to her favorite room
Sunny sat down in the kitchen
She opened a book and a box of tools
Sunny came home with a mission
She says days go by I'm hypnotized
I'm walking on a wire
I close my eyes and fly out of my mind
Into the fire

Sunny came home with a list of names
She didn't believe in transcendence
It's time for a few small repairs she said
Sunny came home with a vengeance *

I've never been one to understand why people want to purchase fixer-uppers. Who has time for that? On the other hand, the idea of buying new construction doesn't appeal either, as there's no one ahead of you who has worked all the kinks out.

And yet, I'm married to a man who is not at all inclined to do repairs, though once he begins a task he generally follows it through in a marathong session until it's complete.

Last night, for example (well, Friday night, really) I asked him to be certain to trim the shrubs out front, because I can't stand walking past them any more, and he went to work without even changing to grubby clothes, then complained that he was dressed improperly.

I love him, but he perplexes me.
On the other hand, the bushes look much better.

*”Sunny Came Home,” Shaun Colvin

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The Love Shack is a little old place
where we can get together
Love Shack bay-bee! Love Shack baby!
Love Shack, that's where it's at!
Huggin' and a kissin', dancin' and a lovin',
wearin' next to nothing
Cause it's hot as an oven*

Fuzzy and I have lived together in three apartments and four houses (the last three of which we've owned) in our 10+ years of marriage. (I did mention wanderlust in an earlier post, I think?) While there wasn't any one that was really a love shack, I think our condo was the closest thing, in the first year we were there.

We only had one dog, then, and tons of disposable income, and we almost worked the same hours, mostly, so we fell into a pattern of seeing a play every month (or some other sort of live theatre), and we replaced all our techy toys, and while sometimes I wish we'd have stuck it out there, just a little longer, ultimately the place was too small for any company staying over three days.

But…it was a wonderfully light space and there were warm feelings there. I liked it.

*”Love Shack,” The B-52's

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The house at the top of 16th street was a yellow Victorian, and felt like something that belonged in a Madeleine L'Engle fantasy novel, but then, I guess Colorado in the 1970's was sort of a fantasy for most people.

We seemed to have endless freedom, but it was just youthful perception, I think, and not reality, because I remember being made to read an article about a girl who was abducted, at one point, as a sort of object lesson about why I shouldn't hang around in the park after school, but come home and check in.

We used to walk to the Y, for ice skating, walk to the movies, ride our bikes to the library and spend the day there.

But then, we also used to think three different encyclopedias counted as three references, when we did reports.

Perhaps freedom is always illusory, but if so, isn't time, also?

Funny how the time flies in our youth,
But with darkness approaching, we'll all grow close
In the place we'll call heaven
But for now, we'll just call it home
Where my friends are, even when I'm not.
I wish you were here.
I'll see you– at home.*

“Home,” Deep Blue Something

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Go home said the man in the moon go home
Go home said the man in the moon go home
Because its gettinsorta late and Ill soon turn out my light
Go home said the man in the moon
Go home
We didnt know who we were, we didnt know what we did
We were just on the road
We didnt know who we were, we didnt know what we did
We were just a ridin on
We were just a ridin on the road*

I've taken exactly three road trips in my life that were “serious” road trips.

The first was in 1980, when my mother and I drove from Colorado to California, in summer, in a car with no air conditioning. (It was a blue Subaru named Arnold.). I remember that she tried to order beer in Salt Lake City, and that we mocked street names like G1/2 (in Grand Junction, CO), and city names (No Name, Colorado and Silt, Utah) and that neither of us were terribly impressed by the Great Salt Lake.

The second was in March, 1995, when Fuzzy and I drove all my stuff from California to South Dakota. Summer would have been better, because at least we wouldn't have had to buy chains for the moving van, which, ironically, we didn't even need to use, because the snowline kept changing right as we approached it. (We did get snowed in at Kearney, NE, but it was romantic, not awful.)

The third was when we moved from California to Texas last year, and I can't elaborate on that, because the story's being published in September, but on all three trips, I remember watching the moon at night and thinking that there was nothing to fear because the moon was the same moon.

It's only just struck me that in all three cases I was going TO a new home, not fleeing an old one.

He was born in the summer of his 27th year
Cominâ™ home to a place heâ™d never been before
He left yesterday behind him, you might say he was born again
You might say he found a key for every door. **

*”On the Road,” John Denver
**”Rocky Mountain High,” John Denver

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For a while, when I was nine or so, my mother and I lived in Ocean Grove, New Jersey. My walk to school started two blocks from the beach, and ended at the school, which was at the town gates. Two blocks before the school, there was a mom-n-pop convenience store, the kind of place that sold kid-friendly snacks, and adult-friendly alcohol, and very little else.

Typically for such a place, there was a sign on the door limiting the number of kids to three at a time. Also typically, the prices were inflated. I didn't often have a chance to buy anything, but once in a while I'd go in with a friend, on the way home from school.

As a nine-year-old, living in such a tiny town – a town so conservative that even “heck” was considered an obscenity – was pretty cool. The beach at one end, the boardwalk that paralleled it, and all the old-fashioned stores, made it seem like a playground, or a movie set. I'm not sure about other kids, but I was too young to realize how dingy everything was, and how everything depended on summer tourists.

And no one likes summer tourists.

When I think about living there, in our 2nd floor walk-up with the tiny rooms, and funky old kitchen, and the sliver of ocean you could see if leaned forward in the bathtub, I tend to romanticize it, and in truth, if I had that apartment just for me, as a young adult, I'd have been pretty happy (and I'll have to use it in a story) but the reality is, it was a pretty bleak existence for my mother, and I think, at that point, even going back to Colorado was getting closer to home, than staying in New Jersey.

Show me the way to go home,
I'm tired and I wanna go to bed.
I had a little drink about an hour ago,
And it's gone right to my head.
Where-ever I may roam,
Oâ™r land or sea or foam.
You can always hear me singinâ™ this song,
Show me the way to go home!*

*”Show Me the Way to Go Home,” Irving King

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I want to walk you home
Please let me walk you home
I want to walk you home
Please let me walk you home*

This post marks the three-quarter mark. We're in the home-stretch and heading home. If you're still awake, please consider pledging? After all, there are a lot of families who don't have homes of their own which they can walk to. The pledge links are in my sidebar, and on my Blogathon Info Page

Speaking of walking, I'm listening to Fats Domino on Napster. The last time I heard this song was in 1991, at my grandparents' 50th wedding anniversary. I danced with my grandfather for the last time, at that party.

When I was a little girl, I used to walk up and demand that he “dance me,” which meant, basically, that I would put my bare feet on his work-shoes, and he'd waltz around the dining room. Then my grandmother would come in, and ask him to dance with her, and they'd hum. It was sweet.

My grandfather, by the way, once gave me a toy toolbox, with my very own hammer. When I was little, I played with erector sets and tinker toys, as much as with dolls, so you could say I have a natural affinity for my charity Habitat for Humanity – Women Build .

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If youâ™re lucky to be one of the few
To find somebody who can tolerate you
Then I shouldnâ™t have to tell you again
Just pack your bags and get yourself on a plane
If you need her, you should be there
Go home
If you need her, you should be there
Go home*

The thing about marriage is this. You don't have to embrace each other's quirks, you just have to tolerate them. I like a properly set table, and sheets that are nicely turned down, and towels that match. Fuzzy prefers that dirty dishes never be stacked, and grumps at me for leaving the pool pump on. But we love each other, so we tolerate the odd behaviors.

I think this tolerance goes a long way toward making a house into a homey, comfortable space, and not a showpiece where people are afraid to slouch.

*”Go Home,” Barenaked Ladies

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Summer 1995
Somwhere between Fargo, ND, and Moorhead, MN

I only remember one room of the cabin, but it's possible there were more. It was steps from the lake, and had no indoor plumbing at all. I had my period and wasn't inclined to use an outhouse when I hadn't been prepared for the presence of an outhouse, so Fuzzy drove me all the way back out to town so I could use the restroom.

I'd never experienced deep-fried fish before, except in the form of fish sticks, and those aren't real fish, right? But this was freshly-caught trout and there they were, breading it. Fuzzy told me, later, he'd never had fish any other way. Actually, if I pretended it wasn't fish they were breading, it wasn't bad.

(I love fish, just…unadulterated.)

His grandmother was sweet, funny, kind.
The boat ride was nice.
I really have no taste for places that lack modern conveniences. I mean, even beaches have real bathrooms, even if you do have to pay to use them.

Summer 1997
A farm outside Minot, ND.

Another reunion of Fuzzy's family, and I'm much more prepared this time. (Translation: I use the bathroom at the convenience store before we leave paved roads.) I arrive expecting a rustic cabin, but instead it was a fully fledged farmhouse. We met one of his cousins as we pulled into the driveway, “Everyone's in the main barn,” I was told.

Cautiously, I followed Fuzzy through the grass, trying not to flinch about all the crickets our feet crunched, and we peeked into the barn, finding the ultimate juxtaposition of then and now.

In one corner his aunt was teaching the little kids to make rope.
In the opposite corner – a power bar had eight laptops plugged into it, as the family 'elders' completed the geneology.

Itâ™s the sweetest thing I know of,
just spending time with you
Itâ™s the little things that make a house a home
Like a fire softly burninâ™ supper on the stove
The light in your eyes that makes me warm

Hey itâ™s good to be back home again
Sometimes this old farm feels like a long-lost friend
Yes â™nâ™ hey, itâ™s good to be back home again*

“Back Home Again,” John Denver

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