Do you live in an old house?

 

My house, cozy and snug in a 2011 snowstorm

The decorative dentil molding over the porch gave way to age several years ago

My house was built in 1922. It wears its age proudly and well. Over its ninety years, it has softened and gentled until it wraps itself around me in a way new houses never do. More than a house, it's home and has been for twenty years. The floors are scuffed and scraped—you can see where my Aussie slept every warm night, preferring the wood floor to his bed. I guess the oil from his coat gradually wore away the finish. Same thing in the spot in the office, where he always slept at my feet. And under my rolling chair—and I do roll from desk to credenza to get this, that or the other—the floor is similarly scraped. Some previous owners weren’t smart about water damage from plants, and there are some huge circular stains in the dining room. Even the new floor that was put in the add-on family room ten years ago shows stress and strain by the back door to the yard—too many muddy dogs and children have gone in and out.  When one of my daughters suggested I have the floors redone, my answer was ready: too difficult to live through, too expensive, and shiny would floors would make this grand old lady (the house, not me) uncomfortable. The next occupant will have to redo the floors—but I hope that’s a long way down the road.

When something breaks in an old house, it really breaks. It seems like I have a water leak somewhere all the time which means high water bills and even higher plumbing bills. Commodes are big offenders—they leak, they run, they periodically re-flush themselves even if you’re not in the room. The plumber explained that one to me and it sort of made sense. Most recently the commode in the guest apartment sprang a leak—and warped the wood floor so that several boards had to be placed. I could not live in my old house without Bundock Construction—brothers Lewis and Jim. They did some major remodeling in 2000, taking out a partial wall and putting in French doors, redirecting duct work, giving me a new attic staircase because they said the old one would kill me, and finishing with a much needed paint job. When they finished, they said “Call us. You’re one of ours now.” I’m sure they’ve lived to regret those words, because I call almost every week, for everything from a light bulb high above the kitchen soffet to a broken bird feeder.

I’m convinced old houses get dirty faster than new ones—they have cracks and crevices through which dirt sifts, windows don’t fit tightly (vines have been known to grow in those little windows over the bookcases that flank my Art Deco fireplace). There’s a crack between tile floor (those old tiny octagonal tiles) and baseboard behind the bathroom sink, and most mornings a gecko comes through to visit with me. I wait for him and welcome him. Thanks to Socorro Escobar who keeps my house clean. Love old houses, hate to clean them.

At night I lie in bed and look at a ceiling with so many cracks that it looks like a road map. I listen to my house creak and groan and it settles a tiny bit. Occasionally there’s a loud, unidentified noise, but I figure if the dog isn’t alarmed, I won’t be either. I’m home, safe, and comfortable.

An Austin weekend

This is how the adult Alter/Hudgeons/Burton children spent Saturday afternoon, glumly watching the deafeat of UT at the hands of OU. And below is how the grandchildren spent the afternoon--caged. It's not as bad as it looks. The trampoline has a net around it for safety, and most of the kids spent all weekend bouncing. We had seven children, one pool, one trampoline, and only one accident: Edie twisted her ankle just before we left for lunch on Sunday and had to be carried, though by the time we finished eating she was putting some tentative weight on it and not nearly as tearful as she'd been when it happened. A much more minor problem: two footballs are now in the yard of the neighbors behind the back fence--Maddie has a powerful arm.

The final picture shows how the Alters celebrate birthdays, with all those children trying to put forty candles on Aunt Megan's cake and then help her blow them out. Of course they were the trick candles that flare up as soon as you blow them out. Megan finally had to say to the children, "Quit blowing. It's just makes them light up again." She resorted to dumping them in a glass of water. I was pleased with my present for Megan--besides a gift certificate for Kindle, I gathered forty of a variety of things--marshmallows, corks, Hershey kisses, gummy bears, scrunchies, jalopeno almonds, etc., each with a note for suggested use.

It was all great fun, and we had a lovely weekend. The weather was beautiful, and mostly we sat around in the back, watching the kids in the pool or on the tramp (strict rules about adults being around for these activities, though Maddie pretty much qualifies these days). We went to a six-year-old's soccer game to see Sawyer play defense and goalie--he did himself proud and was pleased with all the praise. We went for a long walk at dusk--longer than Megan promised me it would be and though I can ride a good distance on my stationary bike in a fair amount of time, this wore me out. Today we had lunch at Salt Lick, the legendary barbecue place I'd heard much about. I'd heard, with some trepidation, that they put barbecue sauce in their potato salad, and I resolved to abstain--but it was good. We ate under the trees, and the kids could run and play, though they spent some time raptly listening to the guitar player.

The nice thing about my family is that they really all love each other a lot, and all the children get along and have a weekend-long play date (bedtime is sometimes hard). But no adults singles out his or her child for attention--they are equally loving and caring--and meting out discipline--with all the children. But I feel so blessed.

Megan and Brandon live in a sixty-year-old house, and this is the first time I've seen the remodeled kitchen, which completely transformed the whole downstairs--it is now open from front to back, with a huge granite slab island that will eventually have cabinets on one side and seating on the other. At the far end, near what is used as the living/family room, there is a bar with higher stools. It's all great for visiting with whoever's cooking, gathering around to eat, whatever. So much more space and openness--and light. In fact, Megan says at night their house looks like a big-screen TV and she must get drapes. But it's really wonderful, with redone hardwoods (dark), dark wood cabinets, multi-color granite counters, and backsplash of variegated glass bricks--I'm not doing it justice. Megan has impeccable taste, and it's all well done.

So, home, tired, with lots to do. But savoring a wonderful weekend. I see someone has already put some weekend pictures on my Ceiva--the revolving picture frame on my desk.

Remodeling

For the last month or two, Lewis Bundock, the contractor who keeps small things around my house in shape between bigger jobs, has supervised remodeling of my garage apartment--hardwood floors, a paint job, upgraded plumbing, removal of an add-on closet extension that really crowded the bathroom, and installation of mini blinds. Okay, I know mini-blinds are passe but I'm not putting plantation shutters out there for all the use that room gets. I ordered furniture--a futon and a double-over-double bunk bed, which I didnt even know they made. But now it's all together, except that I need a rug in the middle of the floor, matching linens on the bunk beds, and the futon mattress cover that I ordered--it's a blue pattern. I'm trying for a yellow and blue theme out there. The kids will try it out when they're here for my birthday the weekend of July 17th. It doesn't have a kitchen, more like a dormitory that can now sleep eight. No kids under six in the upper bunk--firm house rule.

Betty and I went on a grand adventure today. There's a court with maybe eight houses around it a little east of here, on the edge of the neighborhood I'm writing about in my novel. I wanted to explore it, but I wanted company to do it. So off we went. To my surprise, most of the houses were in pretty good shape--what gives one the derelict idea and what I'd seen before is a crumbling concrete wall around the court. Inside, though, there's only an unpaved, divided road, and landscaping that has dried up and given up. So in spite of the okay houses, the place has a seedy air, even more so from the perimeter where garages seem falling down and weeds prevail. A curious place at best, but it will be in my second mystery. No, no publisher, no agent, no one has bitten on the first novel, but I well know that perseverance is the key to success. I'm persevering.

After our adventure we ate lunch at the Art Gallery Cafe which Betty had only been to once and I hadn't been to often--a wonderful toato basil soup and we split half a sandwich--melted cheddar and provolone with tomato and bacon. I could have done with the soup and forgotten the sandwich, because I felt so guilty for eating bread which is not currently on my diet.

I'm not following a prescribed diet, but I'm cutting back on helpings, carbs, and luxuries like chocolate sundaes at night. I'm trying for no snacks after 7 p.m. but that's hard--I get really hungry about ten. For the past three days I've done 30 minutes of yoga and 4 miles on my stationary bike every day. And suddenly this week I feel better about my body. I'm not sure I've lost weight but I just feel better--also in my head. I think I attribute it mostly to the yoga although I know I have to do the bike for the cardio. Still, I'm a bit smug this week.

Keeping busy

I thought I'd have a lot of time to write this weekend, but I realize that I have friends coming Saturday night for a light supper--gazpacho and egg salad sandwiches with smoked salmon and tarragon--and the neighbors Sunday night for leg of lamb, which is a thank-you to Jay for taking Scooby for a grooming. It occurs to me that I invent all the things on my calendar that keep my busy. If I wanted to write every evening, I could do it--I'd just have to cut out entertaining, eating out with friends, occasional literary evenings, wine on the porch with the neighbors, and all the things I enjoy. At this stage of life, no thank you. I like the activities I create, and I've gotten good at not doing what I don't want to.
Wynona is back home from the vet with clean teeth. I am tempted to tell him what life without a cat is like if he bugs me again, because last night I had a taste of it. He wasn't sitting on my desk, stalking me until I fed him; he didn't demand food just before I went to bed. And this morning, the neatest thing of all--he didn't get me up at 6:15--Scooby and I slept luxuriously late until 6:45, and then I was so rushed I set off the alarm when I let him out. But again, no messing with Wywy's food and antibiotics. Still, I missed him. And tonight I feel sad for him--he hasn't quite got his back legs into action again after the anesthesia. He tried to jump up to where I usually keep his food, out of Scoob's reach, and he fell down backward. I picked him up and soothed him and let him eat, but then I moved the food down to the floor, at least until Scooby comes in for the night. Just now he jumped up on my desk but almost didn't make it--one back leg gave out on him visibly. I do not want to talk--or think--about what I've spent on animals in the last two weeks, between Wywy's health and Scooby's haircut and tooth brushing.
I'm working away on the mystery, and it's going well. The more I write, the more I think of what's going to happen next. I've thought about Robert Parker,who never goes back to rewrite, because I get to a certain point in chapter five and realize some thing that happened in chapter two is all wrong, and I have to go back and change it. A character that I had a straight, upright man in his fifties really needs to be a nervous, milk-toast man in his sixties, with a combover hairdo, and similar things. But still I'm pleased with the progress. A bit more on chapter five, and then I'm going to go back and study the first four chapters one more time--this is, maybe, the fifth time. My mentor and favorite crime novel authority has agreed to read them. When I realize what little luck some of the writers on the Guppies (going to be published) blog are having, I feel strangely optimistic--like the gods of publishing are going to smile on me. Maybe that's smug.
I spent a hot hour in the guest apartment today, undoing plastic bags of linens, seat cushions, books, etc., and then I did four loads of wash. I figure all those linens got dusty while stored in the garage, even if they were in plastic bags. Jeannie came over for a glass of wine and brought the rest of a jar of pickled herring I'd left at her house. After we had our wine and herring, she helped me put the dust ruffle on the bed. So tomorrow I'll get the main bed made and collect linen for the other beds. It's really beginning to look like a room.

Remodeling, Mealoaf, and Mysteries, Always Mysteries

You can't tell much from this picture, but it's the best I could do for a closet that's no longer a closet. Andit gives you a picture of the rather wild color scheme in my garage appt.We've gotten serious about rennovating the apt. It hasn't been updated in 15 years, and during that time it had two boys--one a neat freak and the other a mess--and then a single girl addicted to candles (it's a wonder she didn't burn it down)--hard use. The plan is to put down hardwoods, paint, upgrade the plumbing a bit, check the electrical system, replace the gas wall furnace which sometimes makes me wake late sleepers to be sure they're alive, and get rid of furniture, adding instead a full-over-full bunk bed and a futon. That will make space for eight to sleep. Last night Jordan and I let Jacob play in the driveway (protected by a gate) while we stripped beds, packed up throw pillows, took down pictures and small shelves, and generally cleared out the place. It is now a mess. Lewis, the contractor, has already broken out the section of closet we want removed because it made the bathroom too small.

The kids have all had input into this remodeling, because they're the ones I'm doing it for. Jamie was most alramed when I said I might keep the current color scheme and also concerned that the bathroom was too small for more than one person and couldn't we take out that bit of closet that extended into the room (it was basically an L-shaped closet, and the extension was an add-on). I had to bite my tongue--he has always been THE most private person in the bathroom, and now he wants a crowd in there? Jordan wanted sleeping lofts but we nixed that--too expensive and not possible structurally unless they were shallow enough to give even children claustrophobia. I polled them all to be sure before I spent all this money that they would stay there and they all said they would, except Jamie who said he would "If it's cute enough"! I looked around the room tonight, stripped as it is, and saw how really shabby it looks. I'm glad to be doing this.

Tonight I made a big "Italian-style" meatloaf--new recipe. It smells--well, different--but I just nibbled on a bite and it's pretty good. Topped with mozarella which turned crusty and brown--I put it in for the last 15 minutes. I had a salad last week with lots and lots of mozarella on it and decided I don't like mozarella--but this brown version was good--and crisp. Tomorrow I'll make cheese grits and saute some summer squash and zucchini with a bit of fresh basil and take half of all of it to Jeannie and Jim. Jordan will probably come eat the other half with me.

I've been thinking a lot about mysteries (while not reading one). The agent has not replied about my manuscript, but I am not encouraged since he said it sounded familiar and hadn't I queried him before? I think I should start yet another new story--this will be my third mystery with none published. Only my determination to publish a mystery keeps me going--but I am determined. I've joined a chat group or whatever about senior sleuths, which are increasingly popular--the AARP Bulletin recently had an article about the popularity of mysteries with senior sleuths (think "Murder, She Wrote" or some such). I'd had one in mind, but I decided my senior citizen was a stereotype of the dithery old maiden aunt. Strike that. There are too many cooking-related mysteries, but I still think that's what I should do--it seems a natural for me. Of course, there's the matter of plotting . . . . haven't come up with that (Jamie once said the reason I wrote historical fiction was that I was so poor at coming up with my own plots--and that's a polite way of putting what he really said!). Think I could do a mystery that involves cooking and grandchildren? Some ideas rattle around in my brain but they sure haven't settled down yet.