The House That Found Me

            The sign went up the day after I arrived, which was a few days after Dana told me what she had learned:  the blond brick house across the street was finally going up for sale.  She and Shawn had known the occupants:  an elderly man and his wife.  The couple had the house built in 1963, raised their two children there, and lived in it until they could no longer.  Over a year ago, the wife went into a nursing home, and then the husband.  Both have passed away.  The past few times I visited here and daydreamed about the future, I imagined how neat it would be to live in that house.  Crazy idea, I always thought.  I guess it was not so crazy after all.

            We arranged to see the house on Friday morning.  I silently walked through each room several times, noting details and taking in impressions.  Dana, with Joelle in the baby carrier, talked with Kathlene, the realtor, and Benjamin happily and loudly did his own house tour.  What did we see?  Spacious rooms, each with newer windows and ceiling fan; an updated kitchen and bathrooms; lots of closet storage; and an attached one-car garage.  The floorplan, though totally different from Dana and Shawn’s ranch, is nearly the same size at 1137 square feet.  520 Sooner Road has a new roof and central heat and air within the past ten years, a big shed out back, and mature oak trees in the yard.  The only drawback in my mind (besides the lack of a Whidbey Island view) was carpeting in all rooms except kitchen and bath.

            It only took an hour or so of thought, conversation, and prayer to make up my mind:  yes!  Giving up my dream of hardwood floors was not too hard with all the other positive things about the house:  excellent condition, perfect location, and amazing price.  So on Saturday morning I found myself sitting in Kathlene’s Remax office getting a contract drawn up.  Kind of strange:  I never did get to go house-hunting, because all of the other houses I had been interested in were smaller and way more expensive—and not in the neighborhood I want. 

            While I was babysitting Saturday afternoon, the doorbell rang.  It was Cheryl, whom Dana had met the week before.  She and her brother were over at the house doing some clean-up.  We talked for a while, she left, and an hour or so later she came back over to give me her contact information.  After Dana got home, I went over and Cheryl showed me what they had been up to:  adding the missing trim to the kitchen and cleaning up the garage and yard.  She continued to be a fount of information about the house, and I learned that underneath all the wall-to-wall carpeting is hardwood flooring!

            Though Cheryl countered my first offer (and I was pretty sure she would), she accepted the second, and on Monday afternoon I was back in the realtor’s office initialing the contract changes.  I still needed to make two phone calls to have inspections done.  Kathlene saw one of the recommended contractors in the room across from her office.  We called him over and got the structural, mechanical, and electrical inspections scheduled for the next day.  I decided to call and leave a message for the termite guy, who was on vacation till Wednesday.  A minute or two later, he returned my call to suggest Wednesday. 

            On Tuesday morning, I left a message for Donna Williams at Arvest Bank.  After one round of phone tag, we connected and I was applying for a home loan before lunch.  Pretty quickly I was qualified for at 15-year fixed-rate loan at 3.75%.  I got back to Dana and Shawn’s house in time to grab a quick sandwich before heading across the street for the structural, electrical, manual, and plumbing inspections at one p.m.  Those yielded some unpleasant surprises, so the next day I forwarded on the written reports to my brother Bob for his advice.

            And we prayed.  I, in particular, asked for clarity.  God gave it in Bob’s reply:  though he could not estimate costs, he saw nothing unusual in the repairs needed.  With that green light and a successful termite inspection, my real estate agent sent the repair requests and waited for the reply from the seller.

            I received that reply in person Thursday afternoon.  Cheryl, the seller, was at the house when Dana and I got back from our mother-daughter outing.  I went over to say hi, not knowing what her response to the lengthy list of repairs was.  To my complete surprise, she started apologizing for the needed repairs, saying she had not known about those problems and assuring me that she will have everything taken care of within two weeks.  Already she has a plumber scheduled for Monday.  There will be a walk-through inspection after the repairs, of course, and the tentative closing date will be September 10, which I will likely need to do long-distance.  My son-in-law has offered to start some interior painting for me (as much as I like pink, I do not want a bedroom with pink walls) and even rip out the carpeting in one or more rooms.

            From start to finish, this has been an amazing week.  God has given me so much peace and so much confirmation not only about moving to Bartlesville but also about buying this particular house.  Yes, along the way I have had, and will continue to ride, a roller coaster of emotions over leaving my Whidbey Island home, church, and friends:  I will miss my five years of life here so very, very much.  Yet, I am assured that God has a plan for me right across the street from my daughter’s family and ways to serve Him in Bartlesville, Oklahoma and in one of the local Presbyterian churches. 

             

"Still Crazy After All These Years"

            I’ve been known to parodise (It is a verb!  I checked!) great and not-so-great lyrics from hit songs of the past.  And today, as I walked the back path between Island Transit parking and the Greenbank Store on this glorious, sunny day in July—just warm enough to go outside without a jacket—I pondered parody possibilities. 

            It was the word “crazy” that caught my attention.  You see, I was trying out the mini-hike from the parking to the shuttle pick-up.  In the wee hours before dawn tomorrow, I will need my LED flashlight to find my way.  And my roller bag won’t travel so well over grass and gravel, but the back pathway cuts half the distance from following the road.

            The mountains stood out in bas relief behind the bay.  (Now, I’m not so sure that “bas relief” truly describes the scene, but the term was just too good to pass up.)  The gently warming sun soothed my spirits.  And on the trek back, the one dollar cuppa Mukilteo Coffee from the Greenbank Store, went down my throat like dark silk.  And I wondered if I am crazy to be contemplating leaving all this behind come autumn.

            Here on Whidbey Island, I have the life I always wanted but could never imagine.  Every view is a scenic one.  My cabin in the woods is the most delightful dwelling in which I have ever resided.  Sandy and rocky beaches are just a ten-minute drive away.  I keep company with the folks at Whidbey Presbyterian Church, where love, laughter, and liberation in Jesus Christ are real in the midst of our fumbling imperfections.  I play my flutes (concert and alto) in the Enchanted Flute Choir and in Tradewinds.  Sometimes I even have too much time on my hands.

            And now I plan to move to Oklahoma, where “extreme” is the key descriptor of weather and central air conditioning is necessity.  True, Bartlesville, with its amazing cultural arts center and two Presbyterian churches, among other attractions--is in the heart of “Green Country,” complete with rolling green hills and plenty of deciduous trees.  But those are not the sirens calling me away from the Northwest.  In fact, I will be moving back to the heartland for the very same reason I moved to the island:  family. 

            Four-year-old Benjamin and five-month-old Joelle tug at these grandma heartstrings.  I cannot stay away any longer, no matter how much I love mountains and ocean.  Because of the legacy left me by sister and mother, I am free to follow my heart.  So that’s what I’m gonna do. There are no lovers, and I really hate beer . . . but I’m still crazy after all these years.

Poem, First Draft

Where has a month gone?  Instead of blogging, I've been working on the final bits of a book--co-authored with Lois Edstrom--about Whidbey Presbyterian Church history and writing a sermon to be delivered tomorrow.  But this morning, as I took the trash out, I noticed the Ocean Spray bush and remembered how Mom loved it . . .

Do you have Ocean Spray in heaven?

Perhaps non-noxious Scotch Broom?

Poison-free Foxglove?

Or tamed Kudzu from the South?

Mom would like that, you know,

Even Washington nettle without the stings

and Canada thistle with harmless thorns.

She would like to pull weeds in long strips,

satisfying tugs releasing root balls and tapering fingers that cling.

She loved the clean-up of the woods

as much as its beauty.

She gloried in dirt, in pruning hooks, in trimming shears,

in her child-sized chain saw.

Do you have golf carts in heaven?

The one with the “Priscilla” license plate

so she can toodle down wooded driveways

hauling the brush of her labors?

Please tell me there are weeds in heaven

for those who love to dig and pull,

endless forests and gardens in which to happily toil.

Teary-eyed with rapture, Mom once told me

that conducting a symphony

and spreading compost

were much the same.

She spread her arms wide with the music,

scattering life into the soil.

At the time, I thought, “Dementia,”

but now I wonder if she was glimpsing heaven.

June 14

            It has been a month of odd days since my mother died on May 16.

            There was the day in which I had two important errands to run:  1. pick up the Whidbey Coffee gift certificates for the Sunday School teachers and youth workers, and 2. pick up the death certificates to mail to my brother in Kentucky. 

            There was the day I did my errands with her cremains in the front passenger seat.  And the day I wrapped the box in brown paper.  And the hurried twenty minutes at the post office in which I covered all tape and paper seams with brown paper tape—hurried because I needed to pick up a prescription and drive from Freeland to Oak Harbor for a Christian Education Team meeting.

            There are the days I operate in a gray fog of grief, still stunned that my mother is gone and still grappling with leftover guilt.  There are the usual trips to Oak Harbor for church and music activities, made unusual because I can’t visit her now.  There are the surreal grocery shopping stops in which I realize that there is no longer a reason to keep a look out for her favorite cinnamon rolls or tasty chocolate treats.

            There are the days when her magazines arrive in the mail, and loss overwhelms me.  There are the walks down the driveway in which I remember her delight in picking berries and pulling weeds.  There is the relief that she did not linger long in that final state of fearful confusion.

            And there is gratitude for having had the past five years with her, even when it was so hard and even when all I wanted to do was run away from home or, later, from Home Place. 

            I guess that I’m not done with odd days even though today is an even one.

Waking Up Is Hard To Do: A Song for New Parents

(with apologies to Neal Sedaka)

Don’t take my sleep away from me

Don’t you leave my dreams in misery

If you do, then I’ll be blue

‘Cause waking up is hard to do.

Remember when you slept all right

And let me sleep all through the night

Think of all that I’ve been through

Waking Up Is Hard To Do

They say that waking up is hard to do

Now I know, I know that it’s true

Don’t say that my dreams are at end

Instead of waking up, I wish that I was back asleep again.

I beg of you don’t wail and cry

Can’t I hit snooze another try

Come on baby, give me few

Cause waking up is hard to do