The Real Deal

It was a simple plan to beautify the exterior and protect it from wear.  We had interviewed and hired a siding company because they could preserve the original siding and install a vapor barrier and new siding over the old stuff that was flaking away and needed to be protected from further decay.

When the crew arrived, they realized the siding had to go, because it was loose and bowing and impossible to put the new over the old.

I was heartbroken. We were told it was original to the house and we were serious about preserving it.

I railed against the wind. And then reluctantly. From work. I agreed.

I continued to worry all morning that we had not made the right choice. It is a charming home, and perhaps somewhere in the future a family might want to authentically restore it. Around noon the Hubs who was project managing started texting me. The project was underway, and there were some exciting discoveries.


The top layer was not the original siding. Look!

Under the porch along the front of the house they discovered like-new lath and plaster walls. Un-insulated. That explained a lot.

The south wall is a big 2 story section with the office and hall bath below, and the Dormer guest room above.  Under the top layer they found ugly green vertical siding with insulation dating to the 60s.  Under that was a layer of solid horizontal tongue and groove hardwood they guesstimated to be from the 20s or 30s. It was in nice shape, with weathered patina and a couple of tins of Sheik condoms tossed in the walls. (Rudolph Valentino was very big.)


And there in a tiny little corner under an original electrical panel was one tiny section of rough hewn vertical tongue and groove slats that everyone is pretty sure was the real deal from 1902.

The north wall is the largest section, with the kitchen and dining room down, and a large bonus room up.  There were no layers other than the top layer of siding, and just enough insulation to cover the ground floor. We had thought the a/c unit wasn't strong enough to cool the bonus room, but now we know...

No one would have bothered insulating the upper level because until about 6 years ago it was unimproved attic space.  Now that it's a bonus room, we will be grateful to have fixed that problem.

We got to see the old chimney that used to go to the wood burning stove in the kitchen. The top of the chimney is still on the roof and it's all sealed up behind the walls. We got to see all the straw nests the birds built in the space above the porch.

With added insulation, repairs made to long-ago damaged support beams, and a permanent fix for a couple of incorrectly anchored windows, and maybe this sweet old gal will last another hundred years.

I'd like to think that.

A Good Kind of Old

I have fallen in love with listening to someone old.

My father's wife, who outlasted me with enough grace and patience to become a cornerstone of my adult life, is now in her 90s.  One might think - 90 - wow - her body must be hunched over with a mind that is completely unaware of her surroundings.

A dozen years back, she sold everything and moved into a very nice residence for the elderly, with a pool and gym, a 4 star restaurant, and several hundred others who were transitioning through the phases of old age. By everything I mean, she sold, gave away or donated the house she and my father shared, all the stuff accumulated over a lifetime together, and had just a little room to bring a few favorites.

And then she called me up for advice on how to date, it had been so long.

She took up the internet in earnest to keep in touch, and learned to Skype and began reading my blogs. As her hearing worsened, she sought out better phones and amplifiers, and instructed us how to better enunciate and modulate our voices. We don't bother with large family groups anymore, or restaurants, because it's no fun for her watching other people talk and laugh without her. We visit her in small groups where the quiet of her home helps the communication.

When her eyes started to go, she pursued often painful treatments to slow the deterioration.  She bought floor lamps with large magnifiers to play cards with her friends, and a magnifying machine so she could read and manage her business affairs.  When those tools became less useful over time, she did not give up. Even with a serious stroke,  she worked hard to regain her independent living status.

There is little waste in the discussions we have together. They are rich and deep when you reach extreme old age.  What is it like to be living somewhere people are all old?  Death is not swept under the rug, or viewed as separate from life, I am told. It is ever present in conversations and empty chairs. Does she find that depressing?  Not at all. Everyone accepts the stages of life. There is sadness, of course, but also inspiring examples by watching others cope with worse difficulties and still managing a very good quality of life. I was excited to hear her say it is a hopeful place to grow old.

Do people squabble living in such close quarters?  Not so much anymore, but people are people, so sometimes.  She fills her time with a large group she meets for breakfast for laughter and storytelling about grandkids and great grandkids. They talk politics, and living trusts and investments, the state of our banking system and how in the world there will be a successful bailout in Greece. Some evenings there are musicians who play, or excursions into the city for plays and lectures.

I marvel that this is 90s in the modern world of good medicine and nutritious food ... and good genetics.

She worries she is difficult to understand and it is hard to communicate with her.  {Which in old speak means, she is not hearing from family as often as she'd like, and she is feeling her world contract.}

I laugh with her and tell her stories that in every way connect her to my life. What I really want to do is reassure her how blessed we are to have her so completely herself, in reasonably good health, with an active and inquisitive mind. 

I begin to hear fatigue in her voice, and I know it's time to go. And then I wait for it, the sing song-y lilt in her voice when she says: I love you Nanci Anne!  And give that husband of yours a big hug and a kiss for me!

I hang up thinking that I want a thousand more conversations like this, about life and love and the view looking back. I have told her this, and she smiles through the phone and says if we don't have time to finish them all, there will be plenty of time to talk to our heart's content in the next life.