A Little Stone Bench

So I'm trying to fix up my "new" place. "New" being a relative term. It is, in fact, new to ME. It is not, however, "new" as in just built. It is OLD. Not as old as I am, but old enough to need fixing...a LOT.

I suppose that's the way of things, unless you build your own house from the ground up there are going to be things to do when you move in. 

And there are LOTS of things to do. Things that take money. Which is why the fixing up is not finished eight months after the move.

(Good grief, I don't have all the boxes unpacked yet!!!)

*puts head in hands*

But I understand that having unpacked boxes less than a year after a move is not unheard of. They still bug me, though.

Since the fixing is being done a bit at a time I don't have a lot of pictures yet. 

(I wouldn't publish pictures of the current state of my craft room even if you paid me money...a LOT of money...because it's awful. Horrendous. Cosmic chaos in an enclosed space. And sometimes I cannot even bring myself to look into the craft room. But next weekend I'm going to do some serious excavating in there...I promise. I SWEAR.)

But let's focus on the positive. I have accomplished some things. Had blinds installed in bedrooms and kitchen, and replaced the deplorable vertical blinds in the family room (the ones the former tenants' kids used as Tarzan vine swings).

I also did the porch. 

It was the easiest "room" to finish. It was basically empty, and I put stuff there. Et voila! A finished room. It was not a huge accomplishment, but it makes me feel pretty good to look at it every morning as I leave for work, and have it all cute and welcoming when I come home again.

Here is what the porch looked life before. 

And here is what it looks like NOW.

I waffled on the bench. When Kay and I were at Tai-Pan Trading (one of my favorite places!) there were some really cute metal benches. I found the pitcher and greenery, the stone birdhouse, the topiary and the candle stick there...but I couldn't make a decision on the bench. (A sure sign that I needed to WAIT.)

I'm glad I did. I went on line and looked at HUNDREDS of benches...but the one that caught my eye was this little English Garden Bench at Home Depot. It was small enough to not take over the space, and it just seemed to fit with the other things I'd chosen...like it was meant to be.

(It looks heavy, but it isn't all stone...just a faux stone finish, and the legs bolt on. It was light enough to assemble it inside and carry it out.)

I added a garden bell / windchime and a standing three-tiered lantern - great buys at Hobby Lobby!

And a standing garden bell in the flower bed (also from Tai-Pan Trading).

I think I might add a bit more in the flower bed to go along with the bell...maybe a critter or snail or fairy or something...but I haven't found the "just right" thing yet. I'll keep looking!

One "room" down...lots more to go! (Patio furniture next!)

And Now It's Here

So even though I’ve been talking about it for years, I think I was in total denial that I would really have to sell the house and move.

But, at last, the time has come.

If all goes well, by tomorrow I will have a firm offer…and there will be no turning back.

I suppose that when the only way you have to go is forward, there’s at least a certainty of direction.

And scariness.
 
And moments when you feel you are hyperventilating. 

And racing thoughts, and very little calmness, and hours of laying in bed, looking up at the ceiling, and wondering if the decisions you are making are the right ones. (And in my case, needing to feel as though the decisions are right not only for me, but to ensure that Dad will continue to be cared for and that I will have been a wise steward with his assets.)

Big decisions. Grown up decision. (You see, I was never a Wendy Darling…I was always a Peter Pan. Never, ever wanted to grow up. Unfortunately, you rarely have a say in that. It just happens.)

So now pictures of my living room and bathrooms and bedrooms are on display on the internet for all and sundry to peruse.

I should be grateful. The house had only been listed for about 24 hours and already there was an offer. But before I found out about this, I had gone home knowing that there had been people in the house, looking it over. It was a very unsettling feeling…I didn’t like to think of people wandering through the rooms - poking through closets, openings drawers and cupboards - JUDGING me (the house, yes – but ME, too). So I decided to walk through, as though I were looking at it as a prospective buyer.

It actually depressed me. There are so many things that I would change (improve), if only I had the money. Cosmetic things like replacing vinyl flooring, or all new blinds in the windows, or repainting the kitchen cabinets, or pouring a new (uncracked) driveway. 

For years I’ve wanted to turn the concrete slab to the west (that had once been the parking spot for Dad’s pickup) into a covered patio, with a lovely trellised gate and stepping stones and a picnic table…but again, if only there had been money.

I go around now, looking into rooms, stepping outside into the backyard to look up at the stars and the moon…and realizing that very soon I will be gone and those rooms will be empty – and then quickly filled with someone else’s furniture, someone else’s STUFF and someone else will be looking at the mountains shining in the moonlight from under the apple tree, or curled up with a book in front of the fireplace on a snowy afternoon. And my throat tightens and my vision blurs…because despite the worry about maintenance problems, and the fact that it IS a very large house for a single lady…and there are SO many stairs (and invariably wherever you are in the house, the thing you want is as far away from you as is physically possible) this is home. And has been for almost twenty years. It’s the longest I’ve ever lived anywhere. It was the last home my mother lived in…and my father, come to think of it. 

So many things happened here. 

And leaving will close a chapter of my life forever.

I'm Dreaming of a Priceless Christmas

I’ve been watching a lot of television lately – must be the winter “veggies” settling in already. And so I’m also (unfortunately) watching a lot of advertisements. Now because of my situation I’m making a concerted effort not to let the avalanche of holiday commercials turn me into an emotional wreck (like they usually do). And because of this effort I’m not “feeling” the commercials, I’m just viewing them.

And I have to admit, once you remove the sentimental business, the ads are disturbing.

Now I know the economy has been just plain awful, and I’m certainly not against stimulating it…but I watched those news videos from Black Friday and I’m pretty sure that the woman who slugged her fellow shoppers in the face to get at the two dollar waffle iron wasn’t really doing much for the gross national product.

Shoppers were mashed, squished, stomped, elbowed, stampeded, shoved, pummeled and pepper-sprayed. People camped out in sub-zero temperatures to be the very first shopper in the door at 5:00 a.m. or 2:00 a.m. or midnight. Some people even abandoned Thanksgiving altogether to spend their family holiday on a quest for the best bargains available.

I know it’s a cliché to remind everyone about the real “reason for the season,” but I can’t help considering that phrase and what it really, really means…and comparing it to the event that started all of this.

Mary and Joseph were poor. I mean poor. And because of Mary’s pregnancy their trip from Nazareth to Bethlehem took longer than they had anticipated. When they got there they discovered every available space in every available lodging was already taken. They found room in a stable...with livestock.

(Imagine you’re headed for your alma mater’s homecoming weekend and you have car trouble…when you get to town the only place available is a garage. Nice, eh?)

I just have trouble envisioning Joseph sneaking out to Zales, while Mary was in labor, to get her the latest celebrity-designed diamond pendant. And I’m fairly certain that Mary, in between contractions, wasn’t frantically surfing the ‘net to find the best deal on Black & Decker’s latest super-saw for her hubby. (Although I’m sure Joseph could have put that present to good use.)

And the very first bed that the Savior and Redeemer of the world slept in was not an Ethan Allen cherry-wood crib with coordinating linens by Martha Stewart, with a Fisher-Price mobile hanging over it from Toys “R” Us and a hand-painted tree mural dotted with twinkle lights on the wall behind it. It was a feed box. Full of straw.

Even thinking along those lines seems ludicrous, doesn’t it? And yet all you hear about is finding “the perfect present for her,” or “the ideal gift for Dad,” or making sure your kids have the latest X-box game. As if the not finding of these things will make Christmas somehow less meaningful.

What is meaningful about Christmas is love. Plain and simple. Pure and unadorned. We celebrate at all because a Child was born to bring salvation to a world enslaved by sin. It was the supreme gift of love. And it changed the world forever.

Perhaps if we really thought about that…stopped to remember the why and wherefore of Christmas, there would be less pushing and shoving, less crass commercialism…more comfort and joy.

More love.

I’m not suggesting that anyone slap a “Boycott Retail” bumper sticker on their car or avoid the mall as if there really were zombies hiding in the food court. But I’m suggesting we remember that it’s not what’s in the box, all wrapped up in foil and ribbon and tinsel, that matters…it’s what is in the heart of the giver. And when we remember that, then the smallest gifts of love can have the most meaning…and Christmas will become again what it once was…what it was meant to be...