Finding Our Way Home
Dahlonega, GA
July 6, 2018
We are at Cavender Creek Winery celebrating the beautiful, intimate vineyard wedding of a couple close friends.
A series of storms threatened, but did not disrupt, the outdoor ceremony…leaving only a cool breeze and chirping birds to accompany the strains of vows and veils surrounding and adorning the protagonists and their pastoral portal altar.
While they are up there saying what they need to say to make things official, we have a few moments to kill awaiting the reception. Some random thoughts should suffice as weapons.
GK Chesterton observed that there are two ways of getting home.
One of them is to stay there.
The other is to wander the whole world till we come back to the same place.
Rita and I wandered, physically or virtually, around the world…or at least our little corner of it, several times in the last couple months, seeking greener residential pastures.
We are no doubt motivated more by restlessness than by urgency.
Last month marked 15 years with our current house, and 40 years since its initial owners first crossed its threshold.
The place underwent some locally extensive cosmetic work a couple years after we committed ourselves to it…a kitchen nip here, a bathroom tuck there.
Lately, however, seductive glances from younger models and knowing nods from more revealing floor plans caused our eye to roam and our imagination to wander.
Does our place remain the right match for us? Do our personalities remain aligned? Do we both still want the same things? Can we imagine growing old together?
And what of its appearance?
Beauty is only skin deep. But if, as dubiously claimed, it is also in the eye of the beholder, then what this beholder began to eye was in many places sagging with wear and spotting with age.
In some cases, fresh make-up and few highlights may restore or reveal its charms. In others, more radical surgery is required.
The hindquarters of kitchen and lower bathroom remain relatively attractive after their initial refurbishment a decade and a half ago.
But the mid-section of family room and upper floor had, like a baggy suit worn by a recidivist hauled to court on a B&E charge, become encrusted with an indifference of style and dulled with the pall of inertia.
Without intervention, the house will devolve from a dignified middle age into a caricatured anachronism…the real estate version of an old man shuffling down Biscayne Boulevard, flaunting gaudy polyester bowling shirts and loud Bermuda shorts while brandishing black dress socks straining to reach the knees.
But what of the other fish in the sea? Surely, an established, desirable area of a burgeoning Southern metropolis should have many eligible abodes worthy of our affection.
And it does…for the price, effort, and maintenance most trophy homes demand.
The most appealing option we encountered was precisely our type, if not for…as Brett might put it…the “unfair” driveway. We would need to install a ski lift to ascend it, but once in the house would enjoy an interior of perfect plan and immaculate design.
Unfortunately, we had no desire to don harnesses and grasp climbing ropes when we came to and from our home each day.
Otherwise, potential matches enticed us with seductive (yet mostly embellished or strategically airbrushed) online photos that camouflaged emotional baggage, poor disposition, or abusive scars…while flaunting tres cher expectations.
As such, while we raise our eyes and ears to acknowledge the wedding vows being exchanged before us, our appreciation for what we have rises with them…and I consider that my criticism of our current home may be less a sign of true disdain than a subliminal attempt to praise with faint damns.
Last week we sent our family room to finishing school, stripped it of its heavy wood paneling, and fit it for an airy, more modern ensemble of light drywall, refined moulding, and elegant mantle that will better accommodate it to modern sensibilities.
Once that room is adequately bedecked, we shall line our sights on our screen porch, back yard, and master bathroom.
Meanwhile, we can’t ring in the new without wringing out the old.
We spent Independence Day liberating ourselves from dozens of boxes and hefty bags filled with unnecessary books, documents, clothes, children’s toys, electronics, games…and perhaps even a distracted pet or two.
We felt immensely satisfied with our effort and the volume of stuff slated for donation or disposal…till we noticed the rooms and shelves we’d devoted such energy to emptying looked, like a Lebanese face after a daily shave, little different than before we cleared them.
We will likely continue seeking a second home on the side, either to rent locally, escape remotely…or simply to fill with the excess junk from our current place.
But this wedding is not long enough to contemplate those scenarios.
As we stroll to the charming rustic winery for the reception, we return to Chesterton…
He once noted that Rudyard Kipling admired England, but did not love her. We admire things with reasons, but love things for no reason. Kipling admired England because she was strong…he did not love her because she was English.
As our newlywed friends retreat down their freshly mown aisle, we realize we love our homes not because they are perfect, but because they are ours.
The grass is not always greener, the sun not always brighter, and the whiskey not always smoother on the other side of the fence.
Most journeys start with a single step…yet some of the most rewarding are accomplished by taking none at all.
Sometimes the best way to go home is to remain where you are.
JD
