Home Sweet Home

I haven’t run this week. So sue me. Moving is considerable exercise, especially when you throw in the half-dozen bicycle trips (or more) I’ve made from my new home on the south side to Walmart and other points north. Being 10 blocks farther south than I was in my apartment at Swing’s is a noticeable difference. The trip to Walmart or Menards is about 8 miles round-trip. That’s a fur piece.

Anyway, things are taking shape here on East Fourth Street. I enjoyed the Fourth of July fireworks in Macomb last night with friends new and old and resumed unpacking today, primarily hanging artwork around the house. It’s all gonna have to come down in a few months for painting – a winter project – but it’s a start.

And I’m pretty excited to have a little workspace set up within my grandparents’ old secretary. It’s really about perfect. (Thanks, sis, for not taking it to Vegas!) It’s nice not to be ensconced on the end of the couch all the time. Not that I won’t write or surf from that perch at times. Hell, while the Internet was out earlier this week, I took advantage of the laptop’s portability and sat on the patio to write.

Here’s what was on my mind:

The windmill that was still only minutes ago now turns with the lazy roll of an LP as Billy Joel serenades with “Piano Man.”  I’ve just spilled the first would-be mouthful of Coors Light down my “Come Together” family weekend T-shirt from Melissa’s senior year at Illinois Wesleyan – the result of tipping the can before it reached my waiting lips – and a train horn blares faintly from the north, the first I recall hearing in this locale.

It’s Tuesday night, July 3^rd, and the twilight sky is punctuated periodically with the pops and booms of illegal fireworks in anticipation of Independence Day. There’s a little irony in the holiday for me this year. I moved into my new home this week. I am finished with apartment life – truly independence – and yet, at 47 years old, I am the beneficiary of my parents’ generosity, for they helped greatly to make this happen. You see the irony? I try not to dwell on it. I do my best and am fortunate to have wonderful parents.

The move started Monday evening after the closing. Two of my lovely daughters helped haul carloads of boxes from my apartment on East Ferris Street to the house , my house, on East Fourth Street. Strangely the two abodes are nearly in line with each other – 383 E. Ferris and 343 E. Fourth. The exact placement of the apartment put it closer to Seminary Street, but I’m basically 11 blocks due south of where I was.

This place sounds different from my apartment. Gone are the frequent ambulance sirens and non-stop traffic along Seminary and the incredibly loud train horns just two blocks away. Instead of horns I get the squeal of steel on steel of creeping freights and the deep, chest-resonating rumble of diesel locomotives as trains crawl through the BNSF railyards nearby to the west. Train horns are picking up just now, and a neighbor on Third Street, across from the Carl Sandburg Birthplace State Historic Site is revving his motorcycle.  And while the traffic on Fourth Street isn’t as constant as that on Seminary near Main Street, it is special. In the Swedish sense.  (Swedes used the term “special” to describe objects of oddity or mild derision; lutefisk for example.)

My house is at the foot of the W.C. Jackson Memorial Bridge spanning the railyards. Either everyone is in a hurry in this neck of the woods, or the bridge has both psychological and physical effects on automobiles and drivers. Vehicles coming down the grade naturally pick up speed, while those headed west – up the ramp – seem to feel the need to accelerate to make it to the top. I’m sure I’ll get used to it. And it is far better than the train horns I was subjected to just days ago. Huh, as I write that, there goes another one, closer than before. Well, it’s less frequent here. And that’s something to relish.

Back to the present

As I turn in my chair and survey the living room, I see my dad is right: I’m building my nest. I’m not convinced every picture and piece of art is in the perfect position, but it’s all taking shape. It could all change in a month, but that’s not likely. I’m a little lazy at times and I grow accustomed to things as they are. Not that I’m resistant to change. Far from it. But sometimes things become accepted as being the way they should be.

But there will be change. Shelves will go up. (Up shelves will go?) I need some little tables for remaining photos, books, knickknacks and whatnot. I need a microwave cart, or preferably a cool, antique-y table that will serve in that capacity. You see, the cupboards on the north side of the kitchen hang too low to fit the microwave under and those on the south side are too narrow to position it properly. I’ve made do for now, but the situation won’t be suitable long term. 

So far I’ve concentrated my efforts on the public spaces: living room, dining room, kitchen, back porch. My room is a mess. The girls’ room (for D2 and D3) is sparsely accommodated. I’m trying to leave its décor up to them. And they’ve already begun negotiating paint colors. I can’t wait.

The house is in good condition, but it’s been vacant for a while and there are a handful of little things to tweak, chief among them is opening the stuck gas shutoff to the oven. The button for the garage door opener in the garage is too far from the door to safely exit after pushing it – I had to pull an Indiana Jones/Mission Impossible maneuver to escape the other day. The hand-held shower head dangled from a hook that allowed it to twist and spray everywhere when the water was on. I’ve fixed that one. The others will start a list.

As my folks would say, “Ah, the joys of home ownership.” I’m looking forward to it.