Renovation Archaeology

I'm at it again. Early in the spring, I tore out my kitchen. Actually, I tore out my kitchen,  the pantry, a powder room, and a closet, opening the space into an adjoining useless room. Basically, I leveled a third of the first floor. I had to. The old kitchen was so cramped, I couldn't walk into it with groceries in both hands. I couldn't have the fridge door and the oven door open at the same time. It was walled off from the rest of the house and too small for more than one person. Thanksgiving dinner preparation should have been a Food Network reality show. I'd never be able to sell or rent my house to a sane person without upgrading.

I've been stalling. Most of the rest of the house has been renovated. After this, I'll just have one more considerably smaller project. The other rooms had been altered many times by owners before and I was mostly tearing out office-style drop ceilings and bad wall coverings, and installing mouldings to match what must have been there before. No one had really touched the kitchen though. The powder room and the closet were add-ons by some do-it-yourselfer of yesteryear. There were several layers of flooring and wallpaper, but previous efforts had been cosmetic.

 

 There is nothing "surface" about what I've already done.

 

People called me crazy. Many told me that they could never do what I've done. Everyone believes that I've taken on more than I can handle. Even me.

I'd like to tell you that demo feels good. And I suppose that it does at times, but mostly this has been a cycle of fear, feeling overwhelmed, perseverance, getting reassurance, and digging in again. I am in no way qualified to tackle this project! But I can't afford to have it all done for me, nor can I go it alone. So I got help - professional help. (at long last!) A very competent contractor, plumber, electrician, carpenters, drywall hangers, and a tile expert. The tasks that terrify or baffle me are commonplace for them. We are a team. And we will get this done. Together.

Sometimes, there are little surprises along the way. Little things that keep us engaged - committed to completing the work ahead. This week, we found a card behind a baseboard. From a laundry - in 1927. Our own tiny archaeological treasure.

 

 As it happens, I've finally started the process of putting stuff back in the kitchen. Last week, it was the floor. I can no longer stand in the kitchen and see into the basement through old pipe holes. I can walk in there with bare feet, at least until work starts up again. It's a start and I'll take it.

I like to think that I got my "fuck it, let's do this" attitude from my mother.  I've seen her take a circular saw to a wall to make a pass-through from the kitchen. She and my stepdad sailed around the Caribbean, vising new places, gaining experience and new friends along the way. They built their own shelter on an island in Panama. She certainly has a few large endeavors under her belt. She's currently assisting her husband through cancer treatments, having managed their relocation back to the U.S. practically overnight. No doubt she often feels overwhelmed, afraid, unqualified, and yet she perseveres because she has to. What is the other choice?

She's not the only one, I'm afraid. So many others face seemingly insurmountable obstacles - tasks so large as to seem impossible. An unexpected diagnosis, a reduction in force, an accident, a crime, a disaster. Just this morning, many neighbors in Ellicott City woke to devastation from flash flooding last night. The photos are mind boggling. It would be easy to quit in despair, after all, these situations are clearly too much for one person to handle. But none of us - no one - is alone. We are among professional help everyday. They are our family, our friends, our colleagues, our friends. Sometimes they are our doctors, our nurses, our counselors, our confidantes. Each of us carries our own unique experiences, our own expertise. Be sure to share it when the need arises. Be generous if you can. So many are plugging away at a task too large for them, one baseboard at a time.

Professor, Teach Thyself!

I dig teaching creative writing. I wish I could do it full time instead of tagging it on to the end of my workdays like a reward for making it to five o'clock. But this is my reality right now. To keep myself from feeling like the cliche - Those who can't, teach -  I find ways to make myself write stories along the way. The last one was as an example for my students, so they could see a draft, then see me tear it apart and put it back together, considerably shorter and more coherent. And then I used it to show how workshop would play out if I had been assigned this story to markup and return to its author.  Does this sound like an excuse to write? It was. With two jobs already, a house continually under construction (this summer, it's a kitchen remodel), and no one else who will agree to mow my lawn or do my laundry, it's not easy to justify shutting out the world and scrawling lines like I could when it was homework.

But I recognize that I must make the time, so writing contests are currently providing me the sense of urgency/anxiety/fear of failure that I need to crank out pages. I have little desire to revisit old stories. Part of this is the fear that, having sat alone in the dark for some time, they will have transformed into terrible stories that no one should have to read, like the story equivalent of those leftovers in the back corner of the bottom shelf in the fridge. I have no idea what's in there, but I'm sure I don't want it.

I'm worried that my novel will start to get fuzzy around the edges, too. I'm afraid to reread it. That hasn't stopped me from considering a title change for it, though. If I get around to the next batch of agent queries, I may test out the new one and see if it makes a difference.

Not long ago, I met with a literary agent at CityLit - a literary festival in Baltimore organized by a fellow UT alum. As instructed in advance, I prepared my pitch, with printed copies for both of us, and worked out my 15 minute spiel. The woman had no intention of hearing a pitch however, and instead, marked up my printed copy and gave me advice for structuring a query letter. Hardly helpful as I teach my own students how to craft query letters. To say that I was disappointed would be ignoring the frustration and anger that I managed to hold back like Hodor lest she suddenly blurt out, "This is the most interesting novel pitch I've ever heard! Sign with me right this second!"   (Apologies if that last Hodor bit is a spoiler, but seriously people - get up to speed on your Game of Thrones!)

So, it definitely feels like the deck is stacked, and not in my favor.

Over the holiday weekend, I abandoned Dave to his meat-for-grilling procurement at the local frou frou grocery to visit the Starbucks several doors down in the same shopping center. It was, after all, double star rewards day Monday and I function better after a good iced latte. A young man sat on a bench just outside the door, looking somewhat despondent. On my way out, coffee in hand, I saw that he was still there. He looked to be on the verge of tears. I had to stop.

I asked if he was okay and he said no, very quietly, almost a breath. I asked how I could help and he said no one could. I sat down. Dave would figure out where I was. I thought about how many people had passed this kid (he was probably 19 or so, but the older I get, the harder it is for me to guess ages) without speaking to him or "seeing" him.

He looked like he needed someone to see him. He was dressed in pressed khakis, a button down shirt, and "job interview" shoes. A black backpack was next to him on the bench. He was clasping and unclasping his hands and looking at the sidewalk. This boy was in despair. I spent a few minutes talking to him, learned his name, told him mine, and let him talk. He was looking for a job, and his success or failure in this effort might determine if he would be able to continue living at home. He'd had an argument with his mother. Heated words had been exchanged and he'd said she wouldn't care if he killed himself.

This boy felt like even his mother wouldn't care if he was gone.

I thought again about how many people must have passed him coming and going for their morning coffee and I took his hand and reassured him. People did care. They did. But we all get in this lane we create for ourselves to stay focused on what we need to do and sometimes it's hard to see beyond the edges. As it was a holiday, I doubted that he would get anywhere with his job search, so I recommended that he give himself the day off and start fresh in the morning. I hugged him and told him that I believed in him and that he should believe in himself. I wish I'd gotten contact information so I could follow up, because after I climbed into Dave's car, tears in my eyes, and told him about this young man and what he'd shared, I continued to have this pit of fear in my stomach for him.

This week is the final one in my current creative writing course and as I encourage reflection, share resources, and pass along encouragement to my students, I think about this boy. Sometimes, we all need to be heard. Sometimes, we all need to stop for a few moments and listen. Sometimes we need to tell others that they can push through, that they have it in them to go where they want, do what they want, be what they want even if it feels like the deck is stacked against them. I believe it when I tell my students. The least I can do is to try to believe it when I tell myself.