Category Archives: Home Restoration

Magical Suitcases

25 Saturday Apr 2009

Posted by in Home Restoration, Life at Home, Soul Care

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In a couple of weeks, my ‘noisy’ Ignatius retreat will be over.  My bags are a little lighter for the journey but I’ve still plenty to unpack, which will help make room for the ‘spiritual writings’ I can once again read. 

 

In anticipation of this, I’ve set about collecting old favorites and buying a few new ones. For some reason, I’m especially drawn toward picking up writings of Evelyn Underhill.  Someone once told me that Ms. Underhill called God by the name ‘Reality.’  I want to know more about how she came to her God name just as I wish to know more about anyone who found God real enough to name ‘Reality’.       

 

Being real is important to me, which goes hand in hand with this idea of being more comfortable in my own skin.  I think my journey with Ignatius has helped with both, though God knows, my work in both areas has only just begun.  My pretending to be something other than who I am began early in life.  First grade, actually.  So I’ve acquired more than a few masks and costumes and magical tricks along the way.  It will take a lifetime to unpack my acccumulations and my tendencies.      

 

For instance, why do I begin thinking about moving every spring?  I’ve worked so hard on this lovely old house we live in, and while some work remains, I know the lion’s share is already done.  It’s hard for me to rest on my laurels.  I want to go out and buy another historical ‘diamond in the rough’ and start all over.  Hocus Pocus, presto chango:  The ugly duckling becomes a beautiful swan.  The house next door would be a good duck candidate.   But my neighbor is probably a ‘lifer’.  And this much neglected house will outlive both my neighbor and my own magician’s interest.     

 

Then there’s my writing.  Right now I have a writing project in mind.  And even though I began it about a week ago, I can’t motivate myself to get back to it.  I’ve no excuses other than fear or lack of interest, because with my husband gone, I’ve time on my hands to devote to it.  Time and a too quiet house, with a new writing desk pushed into the corner, with shades drawn.  I’ve all the necessary ingredients, but no interest in the task at hand.  

 

I grow bored easily, and while I enjoy the creative process, the creating process can be a lot of drudgery.  Except those times when I begin writing words I had no notion to write.  Sometimes words just come and leave my fingers all tingly from their writing.  And I imagine some of those ‘spiritual’ writers that I long to read know exactly what I’m writing about.  This may be part of the reason I wish to cozy up to them right now.  I want to unpack their thoughts and let them rest in my own mind and heart.  And maybe something of their experiences and words will stir me to unpack and write about my own sacred souvenirs. 

 

Sounds a little like magic.  But probably more like ‘Reality.’

A Walk in the Park

01 Wednesday Apr 2009

Posted by in Home Restoration, In the Garden, Life at Home, Mesta Park

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This old tree-lined neighborhood is made for walking.  With such a small back yard, our poodles lobby heavily for their daily walks.  They get a bit of restless leg syndrome without one and so do their owners, whether admitted or not.     

 

When I take them, we always walk in the park and then wind around the streets of my favorite houses and gardens.  Like the senior citizens they are, some homes have aged gracefully while others need tending to, as they suffer from a few cracks and sags.  The worst is the poor house missing its front teeth – its chimney has lost its top bricks.  I wish its owners would invite a mason to take care of this poor old snaggletooth.  

 

I am faithful to seek out one old house on every walk.  Its gardens are still neatly outlined in vintage scalloped wire edging, but the plantings they keep are scraggly or overgrown.  The grass resting in front of the gardens has some big bald spots and the bird bath beneath the tree is inhospitably dry.  On the porch sit some vacant melon green vintage chairs.  The closed door and drawn shades shut-in its occupant, who no longer gardens or watches sidewalk traffic.  The house invites me to prayer as I pass by.      

 

Sometimes a house tells a story, to any who attend to its changing condition.  Upon first introduction, the home is in a state of decline.  Then, the house goes up for sale.  An estate sale may follow.  Then big dumpsters appear as the home goes through reconstruction.  With each passing walk, you can detect small changes to the home’s exterior that hints to dramatic changes taking place inside.  Finally, a new family moves in and plants a new garden.  It’s always out with the old and in with the new as landscapers make more money with complete makeovers.  I wish they would hold estate sales for the old surviving plants – I bet they long for a fresh start too.     

 

Three times a year guests descend in mass to visit this old neighborhood.  Later this month, folks will line the sidewalks and curbs to cheer on running athletes as our streets turn into a race course for the city’s annual Memorial Marathon.  In September, the neighborhood hosts a big party they like to call ‘Mesta Festa’.  City residents are invited to drop in and enjoy a little old fashioned hospitality, as Mesta Park becomes a playground for both old and young, with food, drinks and live jazz.  The final mass visitation occurs in early December, when a carefully selected collection of modest bungalows and stately two-stories dress up for the holidays and open their doors for public viewing.  What is officially called the Holiday Home Tour my husband calls ‘Mesta Besta’.    

 

Mesta Park is home to many wonderful people and dogs.  But it’s the old homes, whether on tour or not, that are the best of Mesta.  The rest of us are just passing by.   

Small Comforts

14 Saturday Feb 2009

Posted by in Home Restoration, In the Kitchen, Life at Home, Prayer, Soul Care

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dsc01212aPainting and death may seem strange bedfellows, but in my life they’ve been coming together like two peas in a pod.   It’s happened twice now in fifteen months.  With my mom, I painted my way through seven weeks of ICU and  five months following her death.  When I ran out of rooms, I stopped.

 

Last Sunday, with a free can of paint in hand, I began my second painting rotation, limiting myself to the vestibule walls.  I had no designs on painting its ceiling or smallish open cloakroom, as I thought the new grayish blue would become a good neighbor.  Monday’s morning light proved how unfriendly it was — as I was waking up to two more days of painting, my Aunt Carol was waking up to something so much worse – without a notion that her husband of fifty-five years would soon be dead of a heart attack.  I heard the news Tuesday morning.

 

As I slipped into my old familiar mourning attire – a pair of old paint-smeared sweats – I slipped into that much familiar practice of grieving with a paintbrush.  And as the cloakroom became a soft black and the vestibule ceiling a creamy white, I thought of Carol and Sonny, holding both close to my heart, and of the many days of summer vacation I had whiled away at their house and all the wonderful memories they had gifted me with– like swims at Twilight Beach and eating watermelon at the Rush Springs Festival.  Painting is a good way to say goodbye.  My mind empties of everything else, so that I am free to settle into peace and quiet, centered on the task before me.  Fully in the present, I sense God in a manner that’s both healing and comforting.   It’s just me and God, creating a little beauty together.  And each and every time I paint, I recall those comforting words written in the book of Revelations.

“Behold, I make all things new.”

My paintbrush teaches me that transformations happen quickly – in the blink of an eye—as quick as a hand can brush up and down the wall.  My faith tells me that death brings resurrection for the dead in the same fashion.

 

It will sound strange not to speak their names together.  These peas in a pod are no more; just as my painting is no more — both just for a while.  With the comfort of painting gone, it’s time to think comfort foods.  And what better, than Aunt Carol’s own recipe for home-made yeast rolls–one of life’s small comforts.

 

Aunt Carol’s Yeast Rolls

 

1.  In a cup, mix ¼ cup of lukewarm water, a pkg. of active dry yeast and 1 T. sugar.  Set aside – Let rise. 

2.  In a large bowl, mix ¾ cup of lukewarm water and ¼ cup of Milnot Cream.  Stir in 1 cup of all purpose flour.  Fold in the yeast mixture.

3. Add 2 more cups of all purpose flour.  Mix – Knead – Let it rise.  After one rising, punch holes in dough with your fingers and let rise once more.  (Allow 2 to 3 hours for both risings)

4.  Butter your hands to shape the dough into small balls, place in a buttered pan.  Let rise once more.  (Up to an hour)   Bake at 375 for 30 minutes.