6. Providence or Insanity

"What am I looking at?”, you might ask.
Well, hopefully, that’s where we’re going to live in Stillwater, I reply.
“But...there’s nothing there. No house.”
Yes, that’s right, I reply. But there will be.

“Are you crazy?”you ask, jaw dropping. “You’re like, 700 miles away, and your husband has a new full time job! And you don’t know anything at all about building houses!”

Crazy? Probably. And the only thing I know about building houses is that it’s about 11 kabillion times more stressful than buying a house, and exponentially more expensive per square foot. So, yeah, we’re insane. You can say it. It won’t hurt my feelings.

But we’re going to do it. Because, when it all comes down to it, you have to love where you live. Everything we were seeing just wasn’t us, didn’t fit our personalities or our quirks or the way we live. My husband needs a place to putter, and the sounds of nature. My son needs a teen hangout, away from us, and civilization within walking distance. I need a kitchen that reminds me of my grandma’s house, and a whole lotta trees. (Oh, and a bathtub bigger than the standard hotel variety would be nice.) We all need windows and birds and oxygen.

So last weekend when my husband was driving around Stillwater looking for houses that met most of our criteria, but instead saw the sign for a large empty lot, we were sorely tempted to start believing in providence. It is in the city, within a 40-minute walk to work for my husband, a 30-minute walk to school for my son, and a five-minute drive to everything we might need in Stillwater. And at the same time, it’s a touch of wilderness—two and a half acres of wooded land which slopes down at the back to a small pond. A small house used to sit at the front of the lot, but burned down after the resident went to live in a nursing home. (We will be carrying out several rituals in many different religions and traditions to get rid of any residual bad juju caused by the house burning down. We are open to suggestions.) So, there are already services on the lot, and even a partial driveway.

Already we’ve been baptized by fire, so to speak, in the world of negotiating deals. Offers were made, counter offers were bounced back, all at the rate of a particularly thrilling tennis match. When the dust settled, and after a slightly embarrassing moment when we realized we were so relieved that we hadn’t bothered to sign the initial offer and send it back and had to be prompted by our realtor, we had a contract. So, cross all available appendages, folks, that we can close soon and easily, to get this ball rolling. The flurry of activity, from calling water witches and the city planning office to meeting with builders and getting tips from hubby’s colleagues, has already begun. I’ve been spending every waking moment—and some sleeping moments as well—scouring internet house plans, researching floor materials, dreaming about pollinator gardens and making new pillows for the great room and what color I want to paint the walls….it’s exhilarating and already exhausting.

When I was five years old, we moved into the house my father and mother were building. The floors and the bedrooms and bathrooms weren’t finished, but serviceable. My father’s table saw, joiner, and several sawhorses and tools were set up in what was going to be the family room. My mother came home every evening from her day job to scarf down a quick dinner, then tape, plaster and sand over the nails in the drywall until she was too exhausted to continue, then she fell into bed. Sheets of visqueen covered the doorways, but we still had to wipe the sawdust that had migrated into the kitchen off our plates before dinner. It was grueling work. But my mother had planned every inch of her house, had run her hands over every surface; and when the day came for the visqueen to come down, and she could walk on the shiny new hardwood floors, she was joyful. She couldn’t wait to invite friends and family, to fill the new space with laughter and love.

I know just how she felt.