The windows are down, my hair tangling in the wind, as I sing along to the radio, and my hand rests on the stick shift, flying down the highway in fifth gear. I have twenty minutes of, what feels like open time, on my way to pick up the kids from horseback riding camp. They have enjoyed a week of horses, ponies, baby goats, tiny bunnies. I’ve endured a week of begging to bring tiny, furry, undeniably cute creatures home.
They almost convinced me. ALMOST. The default answer is: “not until the house is done.”
Time is rushing past and it is hard to stop and take a moment to pause, and even harder to look back and reflect on where we have been. We move from day to day, week to week, month to month while also tackling project after project. It is hard to prioritize. It is hard to focus. Sometimes it feels like we are moving in circles.
It is suddenly summer, and not just summer but the middle of summer, almost the end of summer.
Everyday is full.
Everyday has been full.
Our everyday lives operate against the backdrop of construction: painstakingly slow, but rewarding projects, that get us closer to finishing our house that is already home.
January and February the sub-floors steadily became floors: the reclaimed maple and oak parquet, after using 40 lbs of sandpaper, finally smooth and glowing and the slate tile puzzle completed. With that milestone, the heat system is finished, and appliances installed.
During March, items tucked away in the shop migrated out of storage and finally are moved to their final locations: the ceramic sink I purchased the first week of living in Missoula, the claw-foot tub, the kitchen hood, a pile of lumber that became stair treads. Final coats of paint covered up the dings and smudges from installing the floors.
April, May and June Adam transforms a stack of lumber and two my drawings into physical form. The sheet of discounted cherry-ply into a two-sided bookcase, desk, and deep shelf storage that is our stair railing.
The birch euro-ply are now kitchen cabinets.
I am slowly making the tile components for our upstairs bathroom shower. The concrete counter was carried into the house in four pieces and put into place and after a long process, our kitchen finally became fully functional. The laundry basket, stuffed full of washed and wrinkled fabric become closet doors.
These finished spaces become the final, or temporary place, for our things as each box gets carried down the attic ladder from the shop back into the house.
It has been over a year since we started this adventure.
It is July.
I hit snooze a few too many times.
Adam grumbles.
I make coffee and step into the morning light to spend time, crouched between plants, that my and the neighbor’s kids seeded over spring break. The transition from seed to plant never ceases to amaze me. I look up, recognizing the same faces that walk or ride past, and find comfort in the rhythm of a strangers daily commute.
This spring’s chicks start laying eggs.
Adam builds the balcony railing.
We travel out of town for a weekend - it is our only not-working-on-the-house weekend that is planned for the summer. The kids play with a tiny turtle. They want to bring one home.
Not till the house is done, is my mantra.
The craigslist cedar siding, that has sat in bundled bunks behind our shop for years, is migrating into our yard one board at a time. Each piece is being stained. Exterior trim is being painted.
The list to-do is still forever long: finish the siding, one bathroom, finish interior trim, doors for the bedrooms.
My cherry pitter, applesauce mill, and canning jars are all accessible again. I can’t resist the offer of cherries and spend too long searching through the remaining boxes in the attic to find my favorite canning book.
Kids run in and out, over the fence, around the block, there are laser tag battles, noise and laughter.
I tuck Sylvan into his sleeping bag and under his down comforter, and hand him his flashlight. All the kids, from three houses on our block, decided that they were going to sleep outside, together, on a trampoline. The night air has a chill. There are shushed conversation and giggles, as they all slide into the center. I push open the door to the house. It is warm, and smells of the baking granola.
It is August.
Adam’s parents come visit. They help us mark things off the list: windows are cleaned, blinds are purchased and installed, the exterior wiring is finished.
We head to the fair.
I fill jars with apricots. Our peaches are ripening. I plan on making a sweet and spicy onion marmalade. I start looking for plums.
I finally order the shower kit to finish the upstairs shower. I cut and shape, what I hope, are the last few ceramic tiles. I make test tiles for glazes.
Adam heads out of town for work.
We harvest our first Armenian Cucumber.
Ivory and Sylvan abandon their bedrooms and crawl into my bed.
Sylvan is a Koala cuddler.
Ivory usually likes her space, but wraps her arms around me so tightly, that I whisper: “Is everything okay?” She borrows my shoes, and in one week, is starting middle school. “Yes”, she whispers and falls asleep. It is hot, and sticky, and I’m squished between the two, but this moment feels finite, and I don’t move.
