The renovation progress is slow and steady. Winter weather put everything behind and the resultant chain reaction of delays etc. is evident, but not worrisome. Once again the back yard is a repository for debris, materials and stuff (Remember Hoarding Cleanup, Rule #3?…No vacuum goes unfilled for long).
We, of course, intend to ultimately show Rule #3 to be a false rule for daily life, but for now it rules.
Walls are being patched from electrical work, heating ducts strung beneath the house, wall paper stripped, cabinets torn out, paint samples mulled over and over and anticipation mounts as the days tick by. It is a good thing we are not attempting to live amidst this dusty, messy process.
So, I find myself trying to explain the past to workmen. They remark on the mess, the amount of stuff lying about. I find myself saying ‘Oh this is nothing. You should have seen it when…’ and launching into the past to explain the magnitude of the original mess. While I am doing this, I realize I cannot really explain with words how bad it was there and at my Mom’s. It is never fulfilling to try and explain and why I do it, I wonder.
There is a sense of incompleteness about the past, as in much of life, that begs for things to be tidied up, more complete, more happy. And, as in life, that is not going to happen, beyond the home renovation and returning it to a mid-Century little gem.
It is what is was. Disasters borne from unhappiness, loneliness and obsessions. I can put a smile on the ladies faces, recall their raised voices in glee and frankly shove the dark side somewhere and attempt to forget it, let it numb over time. Because, I cannot change what they wrought beyond cleanups and patching holes. Like a cancer, like a death, it is best accepted in some fashion of reality because I sure can’t adequately explain it. I refer some to here, to go back in time to look at the pictures and compare to now. But, even then I feel like some old timer trying to explain what was to people in a hurry, with distracted looks on their faces, who are listening as a courtesy while ever so slightly turning away to move on. That’s fine, fix those holes, patch this and that and get ‘er done.