Thank You and Goodbye: A Farewell to my Childhood Home

by Cathy

FOR  RENT

Never did two words affect me as deeply as these did the other day; they were plastered across the living room window of the house on Mozart Street where I spent my childhood. Those same windows where I eagerly awaited the daily return of my father from work and that same living room where I would undoubtedly wait and "surprise" him every evening when he walked in the front door. I wasn't expecting to see that sign - I merely drove by the building to reminisce, to see how different it felt now that my parents had officially moved out after 36 years. I was not expecting to see that sign.

Like a bullet ricocheting through my insides, those two words left my eyes, processed through to my brain, dropped down to my heart and shot right back up to my eyes in the form of waves of sobs - all within seconds. I wasn't ready for that reaction yet I knew that selling our childhood home would be like grieving the loss of loved one.

As I drove away in a bleary-eyed mess, I remembered how I was seven years-old when we moved in and I thought that beautiful structure was a castle, with its clear, diamond-shaped doorknobs, its stained-glass windows and its regal architecture gracing the facade's roof line. That castle, which  now holds all of my memories, my secrets, my dreams, my past, my life, will now be filled with others' lives, although I don't see how there will be any room left for them.

 It was the place I grew from a child, to a teenager, to a college student, to a married woman. I know too well that spot on the floor in my room where I would spend hours on the phone with boys or girlfriends. Those rounded cement decorations flanking our front door which we used as an intercom when we were playing Charlie's Angels. The front stoop, where we spent countless, carefree summer nights playing, gossiping, hanging out, choreographing dances to Queen and REO Speedwagon for our neighborhood talent show. The garage where we spent wonderfully simple Easters with our grandparents roasting lambs, and where we kept our first dog, Ginger, who ate the bicycle seat of my favorite pink bike. Where I learned how to ride a bike. The family birthday parties in the back yard. The back alley where I first learned how to drive with my dad in our white Plymouth Valiant. The familiar path to Virginia Park, where we walked or rode our bikes with our grandfather. All now distant, yet still vibrant memories.

Just last week, after 36 years of living there, my parents left their brick-and-mortar child behind. They not only sold my childhood home, but in a sense, they sold my childhood - and that of my sister's. That place that was filled with countless memories - sad, funny, memorable, devastating, fun - and every single one of those memories, relevant threads that tightly bind the fabric of our youth and ultimately, who we became as adults. The places we used to hide, the places we used to hide stuff, the doors and door frames we've written on, the places on the walls we made those dents and the stories that went with them, the hidden places in the furnace room and cubbies where we sharpied our names into the walls, the cement patch behind the garage where my grandfather, God rest his soul, carved out his initials.

The move was bittersweet in the sense that my parents had to move due to familial riffs and other extenuating circumstances, which had become more unbearable the past five years. For this reason, it was more of a relief for them to leave. For my sister and I, however, it was heartbreaking. We moved from Mozart Street on good terms, full of nothing but great memories that will always resonate into strings of stories that will forever weave the webs of our lives as we pass these down to our children. That is how we prefer to think of that building - the house that will forever be our home.

Seeing this home with moving boxes filled with our past, is something I never thought I would see.

Even worse, is seeing it completely empty.

But I didn't get to see that due to the timing of the move. My sister, on the other hand, did. I was jealous of her for having that closure, for allowing herself to grieve the loss of our childhood home in a way I didn't. She told me that after she walked through it, she stood in the foyer and said aloud, "Thank you and goodbye. I hope the next people treat you as good as we did."

I felt devastated that I didn't get my turn in saying goodbye and seeing it empty. On the other hand, I don't know if that was necessarily the best thing to do to myself. I am now content with remembering it full of life, memories and our things.

My mother told me if she was able to wrap her arms around the building and hug it tightly, she would. She put as much blood, sweat, tears and TLC into maintaining that building as she did in raising her children. That pride in ownership is what she will miss the most. No matter what the circumstances for leaving that place, the fact remains that these bricks and glass and wood that formed our childhood home will always be a part of who we are.

Just like the soul of a person gives us life, spirit and individuality, I believe the soul of a home are the people that reside within it. We give it life, we give it love, we give it spirit and memories. Whether we remain in that structure's shell or not, our soul will always resonate within it. Our history will remain fused with that brick and mortar of our past.

If home is where the heart is, then my home will always be that two-flat on Mozart Street where I grew up.

Thank you...and goodbye.

Trash or Treasure?

by Cathy

The other evening, my six-year old walks determinately into the living room where my husband and I were engrossed in an episode of Southland, and asks in a rather demanding tone:

"Mommy, why are my school papers in the garbage?"

I stop short of the formerly captivating television show to deal with the drama unfolding in my living room.

I look over at her, one hand pinned just so on her hip, the other hand thrust forward holding the accordion-folded stack of papers I had just hours ago, unsuccessfully disposed of in our kitchen garbage bin.
Oh crap. I thought I hid those!
"Why do you always throw my school papers away?" she persisted as my mind reeled about how to respond.

Fumbling over what to say, I look over at my husband to find his face buried in the crook of his elbow, head bobbing up and down with silent, but apparently uncontrollable laughter. I shot him the look of death and turned to face my daughter, who was shooting me the look of death.

Why does she automatically assume it's me?!? Maybe because this isn't the first time this has happened. My excuse of, "Oh no! They must have accidentally fallen into the garbage!" barely passed muster the first time and didn't cut the mustard at all on the second. So after that, I learned my lesson and began folding up the papers and tucking sideways under banana peels and coffee grinds so that they couldn't be seen. This day, I apparently forgot to be sneaky.

It's not that I don't love keeping every cute, meaningful little art project, note and drawing from my children; in fact, I have stacks in the storage from each school grade for each kid. (And even those I had to riffle through alone in the confines of my dungeon storage, away from the prying eyes of my hoarding family.) As much as they want me to, I just can't keep every scribble of scrap paper and every puppet made out of a brown paper bag; I just keep what I perceive to be the milestones, the special, the unique items.

All of this cannot - and will not - be saved

My husband, on the other hand? He keeps every. little. scrap. of. paper. Where does one draw the line?

I turned to look my six-year old straight in the eyes and said, "Oh honey, we don't need all of those. I already kept your important papers."

Before her look of mortification could be expressed verbally, my husband jumps in in the form of Captain Dad, to apparently save the day.
"Honey, you can put those on my nightstand. I'll file them away."
Ta da da DA!

"No," I stopped his rescue mission flat. "Just go put them with the other papers under the computer desk and I'll take care of them," I directed her.

Satisfied, she turned on her heel and marched into the kitchen to complete her task.

My husband turns to me, and says rather matter-of-factly: "Wow. You deserve the mother of the year award. Nice going."
"I'm not going to apologize for being practical," I retorted."I keep what I need to keep. I can't keep everything. I'm not a hoarder."
He looked at me, shaking his head.

This whole scenario reminded me of an episode of The Middle in which Brick, the youngest of three kids, finds the handmade card he lovingly created for his mother (and which she had just gushed over mere hours before) mockingly teetering atop a pile of garbage in their kitchen trash. After confronting her, Brick dared her to produce past projects of his, which she swears up and down she has kept. Needless to say, after ransacking her garage and even bribing a fellow neighbor to use one of her kids' projects as a stand-in, she was found guilty on all charges. Feeling horrible, she creates a beautiful heart-shaped card with a thoughtful, tearjerker of an apology and places it on Brick's bed. Guess where that ended up.

While I would never throw away a handmade card from my kids, I wouldn't think twice about ditching math tests or spelling quizzes. After all, one person's "treasure" can be another person's hoarding nightmare.

Building Fences

by Patti

Christ has risen. So has my fence.

We spent all of Easter Sunday from sunup to sundown, building a wall between ourselves and our neighbor. Don't get me wrong: I'm not complaining. I have wanted this fence for quite some time. You see, like most Chicago neighborhoods, the yards in mine are separated by low, chain link fences.  To top it off, while Chicago is known for its sparkling lakefront, Magnificent Mile, lively nightlife, and interesting architecture, what it is not known for is generous backyards. Humble house or monstrous mansion, if you live in Chicago or its nearby neighborhoods, you get a standard-sized lot.  And that my friends, coupled with low chain-link fences, means you better love thy neighbors. If you don't? You better put up a fence.

So we did. The sheer force of M's will woke me, and the "let's build a fence today!" energy got me right out of bed, into the kitchen for coffee, and out into the yard to begin the fencetivities. We had actually purchased several of the materials the day before, and even - for once - gone "by the book" and took out a permit with the Village. Doing things legally is so freeing, isn't it?

Let me ask you this: Have you ever dug a ditch? Because that is what I did yesterday. For hours. And while, on some strange level, actually kind of relaxing, digging ditches is also laborious, monotonous, painful work. Digging ditches makes you realize how much DIRT there is in this world and my god the dirt! It never ends! I dug and dug, with big shovels and little shovels, and still, there was dirt. As I dug, S frantically tried to save all the earthworms that kept popping out of the never ending dirt, their little worm eyes surprised to see the light. She lovingly cradled each slimy, wiggly little creature, and moved them one by one to a new, safe part of the yard. And I kept digging.

As I dug, M measured and sawed and drilled and nailed, and before I could say, "Holy crap there's a lot of dirt!" a very professional-looking frame had been built. One ready for a fence. Can I just say how hot it is to be married to somebody who knows how to build things? Because it is. We then spent the next several hours lifting and carrying and placing panels, ensuring that each one met the other in perfect harmony; that each one measured exactly the same as the other, and suddenly, what started out as just random pieces of wood, became this:

At some point, we ran out of screws and also realized we were starving, so what better way to celebrate Easter besides building a fence than to eat Mexican food and drink beer. No better way, I tell you. We headed to a hoppin' Taco Burrito King, had our fill, and then straight to Menard's to buy our screws. And more wood. Have you ever visited Menard's warehouse? I never even knew such things existed. It's an entirely separate, mysterious universe where you drive through a security area to pick up your wood. Or stones. Or metal. It is huge and filled with cute guys driving little trucks that lift things. And bonus! Is there anything more fun than doing ballet in a place like this? I thought not.

M and I had set a goal to be done with the fence in one day, and while we fell a few planks short of "done", we succeeded in teamwork and effort. Not a single argument, bicker, or eye roll was had during the building of this fence. In fact, despite the fact we both had to pop Alleve and spent the night hobbling around the house bent at 90 degree angles, we had fun. And when it comes down to it, building a life together is a lot like building a fence; it takes teamwork, commitment - and some really good screws.

The No Purpose Repurposer

by Cathy

I always knew my husband was an old soul, but sometimes? I suspect he may have lived through the Great Depression.

Our family is all about recycling and repurposing; finding creative ways to use items that otherwise may be thrown away. For example, I save plastic egg cartons, cut them up into sections, and voila! Instant paint palettes for my kids. This, to me, makes sense, since there is a valid purpose for it and it goes in the arts and crafts bin where no one else will see it. My husband, on the other hand? He takes the "art" of repurposing household items a smidgen too far.

Countless times he's said to me, as I am about to throw something into the recycling bin: "Wait, don't throw that out! The kids can use it as a pencil holder/storage container/what have you!"
I stare blankly at the plastic peanut butter jar I am holding, blinking repeatedly at it while I try to process what he just suggested. Did I hear him right?
"Um, no that's okay," I say politely as I toss it. "The kids have plenty of pencil holders."
The kids, on the other hand, are not as forgiving with his suggestions, but rather state the more obvious, unfiltered version of my thoughts.
"WHAT?!" screeches Bella. "We can't use the peanut butter container as a pencil holder! That's so....weird!"

My poor husband. He's just trying to be helpful, doing his part in conservation. So, you would think he knows what truly belongs in a recycling bin but alas, he doesn't. He throws cardboard boxes, aluminum cans and milk cartons in the regular trash, willy nilly, without thinking, that duh, these should go in the recycling bin. So half the time I am carefully (and bravely) fishing these items out of the smelly trash all in the name of our great, green Earth. I am, after all, a purposeful repurposer/recycler.

My husband means well, but really? What's the purpose of his repurposing? Let me tell you.

The other night, as I was making my rounds before bedtime, turning off lights, pulling frozen chickens out of the freezer for tomorrow's dinner, I saw this:

Yes, it's a sawed-off milk carton.

"What's this for?" I asked my sleepy spouse.
"Oh, I need it for something."

Thinking it might be for some kind of marketing research project, I left it alone...until the next day when he announced that he plans to use it for his utensils.
"Utensils? What utensils?"
"You know, my odds and ends. Pens, pencils, labels, phone chargers..."

The girls and I all stopped and stared with our mouths agape. We were literally dumbfounded.
"Um....papi...." started Bella carefully, but before she got a chance to finish, I did it for her.
"Bwahahahahaha!" I blurted. "Are you serious?"
"Yeah, what's wrong with that?" he said, half smirking at our reaction. This made me wonder if he just does these things to get a rise out of us.
I promptly took it and tossed it in the recycling bin. "That's what's wrong with it," I said. "I have plenty of decent baskets and containers to give you if you want to store stuff."
"I don't want those."
"Why? Because they're not sawed-off milk cartons or empty beer containers?"

Yes, ladies and gents. Here is what he uses as his other knick-knack caddy:

So what do I make of this? Here's what I know:
His life's work is marketing, so he's always looking at different and unique approaches to packaging and the way things are used and sold. He's always brainstorming, always innovating. There's a reason he has founded two companies and ran a franchise operation: he's an entrepreneur at heart. A purposeful repurposer he is not. But, he gets points for creativity and good intentions.

The Candyman CAN'T

by Patti

One night earlier this week, after peering for the 10th time into the refrigerator and exclaiming dramatically that there was nothing to eat, M suddenly decided that right then, that very second, at 8 p.m. on a weeknight, it was time to do the groceries. M is a pretty domestic guy. He irons his own pants, and even knows how to make those fancy creases; he does laundry; he gets the kid ready for school; he cooks a mean breakfast and simmers a fantastic stew. This is why it irritates me endlessly when he looks into the refrigerator, is able to summarize there is "nothing to eat", takes the actual initiative to go to the grocery store - but asks me to "write the list". For all his domesticity, he suffers the mysterious ailment known as "refrigerator blindness". Yes, he can SEE we have no food, but he can't seem to SEE just what might be missing. Odd.

So I, relieved to be relieved of having to schlep to the store, began to write things on a scrap of paper: apples, bananas, grapes, tomatoes, carrots, potatoes, eggs, milk, english muffins, granola bars. I then got bored of writing down the OBVIOUS and told him to please just figure out the rest. So, with my half-finished list in hand, out the door he went.

When he returned, laden with those annoyingly tiny plastic bags, I began to unpack the groceries. There were the apples, a measly three. Oh, look! Some carrots. A nice bag of plump grapes. Ah, lovely tomatoes. Bananas? No. But, here was some carrot cake. And rice pudding. And flan. And a tube of frozen sugar cookie dough. And a package of pre-cut chocolate chip cookie dough. And an industrial sized jug of hazelnut coffee creamer. And a giant box of chocolates that may have been Russian. Or Greek. Or Polish? And a can of "real" whipped cream. And a bag of gooey apple-cinnamon bread.

And just as I went into a sugar coma by sheer osmosis, I was somewhat saved by three tins of croissant dough. But not really. Because, where was the healthy stuff? My "list" was in one bag. The rest of the bags were filled with sugar and boxes of who knows what the hell because the labels were in RUSSIAN.
"What IS this?" I asked M.
"I don't know, but doesn't it look good?"
Apparently, M's grocery list is "sugar and stuff with cool pictures on it".

At least the picture had broccoli in it?

As I unpacked the "groceries", half laughing, half cursing, S jumped around me in glee, shouting out that her papi should always do the groceries. Then, apparently intoxicated by the sugar dust that now filled the air, she promptly made herself a bedtime snack: a waffle sandwich stuffed with Nutella, sprinkled with 1/2 cup of Ovaltine chocolate powder, and then topped off with the last banana left in our house.

And then, as my sugar beast daughter put her head together with her sugar beast papi to figure out how to bring the picture on the box to life, I put away the rest of the groceries, stuffing sugary treats into every crevice of the refrigerator, vowing to buy some celery.

The IKEA Effect

by Patti

My mom recently embarked on a new chapter in her life, and part of that chapter meant downsizing from a 3-bedroom to a spectacularly tiny 1-bedroom. This of course meant she had to sell much of her furniture and replace it with furniture better-suited for spectacularly tiny spaces. Enter: IKEA. Those clever little Swedes - not only have they cornered the market on good skin and blonde hair, they have also certainly figured out how to maximize space, haven't they?

If you've never been to IKEA, you can't know the feeling that overcomes you as you near the bright blue and yellow building - at first a beacon in the distance; a glowing structure of glass questionably sturdy pre-fab-ness - and as you draw nearer, you are overcome with a sense of growing anticipation; that feeling that something is about to change. You see the simple block letters that spell out possibilities and fresh beginnings, and you actually might just get a little jittery with glee. You will circle the parking lot for some time, because you might foolishly believe that you will actually find a spot near the front. But no, don't bother. Just park the 3,925 miles away from the entrance and know that you will arrive; you'll just have to walk to get there.

But once you are inside; oh, once you are inside...

The day I accompanied my mom on her IKEA journey, S came along for the ride. She had never been to IKEA before, and though we were there for my mom, she couldn't help but be infected by IKEA FevAH. It began with the expected "WOAH!" as we pulled into the parking lot. "THIS WHOLE THING IS ONE PLACE?" Once inside, she looked up into the three stories of glass and escalators and Sunday shoppers stuffing their giant IKEA bags full of trinkets and glorious uselessness that, for some reason, the moment you step into an IKEA is suddenly very, very necessary. "MOM! Can we re-do my room?" I yanked her toward the escalator and led her and my mom to the second floor, where the goal was to find a couch. All the way up S yammered on. "I SO need a new room, Mom! Something more teenager-y. Can we get a new bed? Ooh! Can I get a couch in my room? Something cool where me and my friends can hang out? PLEEEASE?"

Once we reached the second floor, I expertly guided S away from the danger zone: The kids' bedrooms. We immediately found the couches - the first one we crossed was a turquoise number.

 "OH MY GAWD! MOM! THIS IS IT!" I steered her away, reminding her that we were here for her Nono, and to please focus on finding a couch for her. One that was not turquoise. We plopped down on a few and within 15 minutes actually found "The One". I whipped out my cell phone and snapped a pic of the item number, and we headed to find a dining room table. On the way, we snaked through countless aisles of magical goods: fairy-like lighting, colorful lampshades, room after room of fabulously decorated, yet suspiciously spotless, kitchens. "Okay, MOM? THIS is the kind of kitchen I want when I have my own place!" She pointed to an all-white kitchen - one that had no dirty dishes in the sink  or pizza hand prints on the counter tops. "NO WAIT! THIS ONE!" This time she pointed to a cherry kitchen. I hesitated. I needed this kitchen. 

We finally found the dining room tables, and were able to find one almost instantly. I snapped another pic, and started the treacherous journey through the remaining lands of quirky shower curtains, fluffy down comforters, jewel toned plates, decorative mirrors and picture frames, and then - the squeal.
"NO WAY! LOOK AT THIS ROOM!"

S ran into a red and pink bedroom and twirled in it, pretending it was hers. "THIS is how I want my room, Mom!" Never mind that the room was 5 times bigger than her room and included a pink couch and a flat screen TV. Clearly, it needed to be her room. We spent the next half hour pretend-living in various bedrooms, living rooms, and kitchens. "Mom? Wouldn't it be cool if we could just live in IKEA and then, whenever we get bored of a room, we could just move into another style?"

I looked around at all of the expertly decorated rooms, and as much as I told S to be happy with what she had, I couldn't help but compare them to my own house: Suddenly, it seemed dated, messy, BORING. It took everything I had not to snatch up all of the prefabricated, boxed-up goodness for my very own, and reassemble my house into something that would make me squeal.

Instead, we left, loaded down with my mom's prefabricated goodness, and, after spending the rest of my Sunday in IKEA-assembling-hell, I headed back to my non-IKEA, non-creative, fingerprint-y, dog hair-y, maybe boring, but somehow? Always comfortable home. As I sank into my non-IKEA couch, I slowly felt the IKEA Effect wearing off. I no longer felt inadequate or driven to to splash red onto my walls in some never-before-attempted, clever way. I marveled at the temporary insanity I had allowed to own my brain, and sunk deeper into the couch, remote in hand. "MOM! LOOK!" S ran into the room waving a magazine in her hand. "It's the IKEA catalog!"

Hjälp!