Four Paneled Walls

Hey Y'all,

My intentions were never to actually paint the paneling in my kitchen.  My original idea was to tear it out and replace it with drywall.  But then several things happened.  Time happened.  Money (or lack thereof) happened. Life happened.  I could rip out the paneling in my kitchen and replace it with drywall for roughly five hundred dollars and two to three weeks’ worth of work.  Or, for fifty bucks, I could buy a few gallons of primer, some paint, and a little caulk and spend three or four nights working and it would be done. 

Obviously I’m cheap and I want to live in this house before I retire – so the latter won.

But something more than that happened.  Any of you who may have read any of my postings in the past understand that renovating my grandmother’s house hasn’t been just slapping up some paint and laying down fresh flooring.  This is so much more than that.  It has been a journey through my past and through my family’s past.  So why should this be any different?

I stood in my kitchen with a crowbar in one hand and a hammer in the other ready to rip out this paneling.  The longer I stood there, the more I stared at it.  And I realized it would be like killing a member of my own family. I thought about everything these four walls have seen. 

You see, my grandmother’s kitchen wasn’t just a kitchen – it was her living room.  Like any true Southern family, my grandmother’s kitchen wasn’t where we simply cooked.  No, it was where life happened.  It was where we laughed over countless jokes, hugged family members that were passing through, and cried over more than chopped onions.  It was where there was enough space on the counter to set a couple of grandchildren and still have room to make peanut brittle or a pecan pie.  It was where eighty people gathered to hear my Uncle Drew pray over a meal big enough to feed a third world country each Fourth of July.

And I want to talk to these walls.  I want to ask them so many questions – what they’ve seen, what they’ve felt, what they’ve heard, and who they’ve loved.  What was it like when my grandfather hammered you to the bones of this house? What was it like when my grandparents moved inside with their three children?

And I want to ask them did you smile when my grandmother played her piano? Did you wrinkle your nose at the smell of the perm kits in her beauty shop? Did you cry at her loneliness when two husbands walked out on her? Did you smile when my grandmother’s first grandchild was brought in her kitchen? Did you smile when we came to play in her floor? Do you recall her jokes, her wisdom, and the countless stories told by so many family members from days gone by?  Did you scream out in agony like the rest of us when your owner passed from this life to the next?

No. You did none of these.  But you were there.  For her.  For all of us.  You were there for comfort when she had no one else. You were there to provide comfort and shelter and refuge for five grandchildren. You were there when my parents were told their marriage would never last.  And you were there to welcome their family at their 25^th anniversary celebration. You were there for all those Christmas breakfasts, Fourth of Julys, and birthdays.  You were there to hold in the aroma of toasted pecans baking in a pie. You were there to wrap around us when the world felt like it was falling apart.  And when the end was near and my grandmother asked my mother to take her home – you were there.

And you were there when I needed you most.  You were there when I needed a place to rest my back.  You were there when I needed to slam my fist against something instead of someone when I asked why to a question for which I already knew the answer.  You were there to remind me that life is just a short glimpse of time’s progression. 

And I want to thank these four paneled walls.  I want to thank them for always providing a place of refuge – for providing a place of comfort when I felt like there was no other place in the world where I was welcome.  I want to thank them for standing firm for these past forty years – for loving my family and me and providing shelter to us.  I want to thank them for the warmth and the laughter and the support. 

These people that say a house is just four walls with some paint and carpet – I don’t believe them.  A house is so much more.  It is a person’s roots.  It may not breathe and feel and live the same way we do, but it is alive.  It is alive with thousands of memories and warmth and love that only a home can provide.

And someday, if I find someone who takes leap of all senses and foolishly agrees to marry me, I hope that one day these walls will see me through my own children and grandchildren.  I hope they see me through heartache and laughter and joy and sadness. I look forward to eighty years of Christmases and birthdays and Fourth of Julys with these four paneled walls. I look forward to this very small glimpse of time’s progression that I get to share with these walls.

I hope that they’ll be filled with light and laughter and love just like all the years that have passed.  I hope that my family and my friends will feel more welcome here than anywhere else on earth.   And I hope someday they are once more filled with the aroma of toasted pecans in a pie with grandchildren sitting on the countertops and aluminum foil stretched out ready for peanut brittle.  And I hope that somehow I’ll be reminded my grandmother is here – just like these four paneled walls.  

Warm Southern Days,

Russ

My four paneled walls before a coat of primer

After a coat of primer and ready to paint

A Sacred Place

Hey Y’all,

This note has been a bit tougher for me to find the words to compose.  I’m not sure why I’ve waited so long to write this, but finding the words has truly been a challenge. 

I have little gnomes living in my house.  They take the following things and hide them in the night: my hammer, my pliers, my paint lid opener, and my knife.  I hate them.

So it all started with a quest to find a pair of needle nose pliers.  

I’m not sure how such a simple task can make a grown man cry, but it did.  You see, there is one room in my house I haven’t touched yet.  I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.  And yet, it is the room I want to demolish in its entirety.  Not because it holds bad memories – no, just the contrary, some of my happiest memories were made in that room – but because it just doesn’t work for me. 

It was my grandmother’s music room.  It was a small white room sandwiched between her kitchen and formal living room closed off by two white French doors and lighted with a magnificent crystal chandelier.  All my life it held her organ, piano, and a small wicker desk. The organ has been long gone, bequeathed to my uncle – but the piano remains, promised to my mother.  And since she doesn’t have room in her house for it (yet anyway) I get it. 

And I’m so lucky I do.  You see, this piano is the only inkling of any type of musical instrument that I can play.  And at that, and after two years of lessons, I’m still horrible at it.  Maybe it was because I didn’t practice enough.  Maybe it was because these fat fingers are incapable of learning such a gift.  Maybe it was because I could never compare to my grandmother.  It is indescribable what a divine melody was created by that piano when my grandmother sat down at its keys.  I remember occasionally walking to her house and finding myself lucky enough to be a secret guest to a concert for only her and God to hear.  I could never bring myself to ring the doorbell when she was playing…only stop and listen. 

And I miss them.  God, do I miss those days. That piano deserves to have life again.  It deserves to be played only the way she could.  I hope one day that I can.  That somewhere I can find the strength and the courage to take up lessons again.  I’ll always regret she wasn’t the one to give me that gift – but she started me on that path.  And I did learn much of it from her. 

I told you that story to tell you this story.  On top of her piano was a stack of cards roughly a foot to a foot and a half in height that she never got around to putting away (she kept every card she ever got…a gift and a feat in itself).  They were all cards sent to her when she found out she had cancer.  Get well cards, thinking of you cards, birthday cards.  Cards that she didn’t put away because she either never found the time or simply didn’t want to.  Often times, she would read those cards when she was feeling rather low.   These cards have been untouched since she died.  I’ve owned her house for almost two years and it is the first time I’ve really looked at them.  I don’t know why.  Maybe it is because part of that house was still hers and sacred to me. So I sat and I read them. 

All of them. 

I read them all through blurred eyes and a God awful ugly cry.  Cards from my church family, cards from ladies I had never met, cards from family.  Cards from people that knew and loved my grandmother as much as I did and still do.  I want to thank each person who wrote those cards – hug them and let them know they mean as much to this grandson as it did the recipient of those cards.  But the gut wrenching part is I can’t thank all of them. Aunt Thelma – you were my grandmother when I lost mine, Mrs. Stockard – you treated me like one of your own when I saw you every Sunday – I can’t thank them anymore.  And that tears at my soul. I hope they know how much they meant to my grandmother – and I hope they know how much they mean to me.  But the ladies that I know and I can still see – expect a bear hug from me and expect it soon. 

The cards have been packed away, the piano has been moved, the chandelier taken down, and the walls ripped out.  But my memories of that tiny room remain.  And take heart, the piano will be a focal point in my living room, the chandelier proudly lighting my dining table, and I’ll cherish those cards for the rest of my days.

And I still haven’t found my pliers.

Warm Southern Days,

Russ

Dallas: an In-Depth Review Mid-Season of the Best Prime-Time Soap and Also Still the Reason Why I Wish My Last Name was Ewing

Hey Y’all!

Again, this has nothing to do with my house, but it is my blog so I’ll post what I want. Yay me! Anyhoo, I felt it was due time for another recap of Dallas mid-season.  And I do dare say last night was quite a doozy (oh and just for future reference, that statement comes from the 1929 Duesenberg Model J car.  $29,000 of 1929 money [$1.2 million today] got you a chassis and an engine.  Then the car went to the carriage builder of your choice where it was custom built to owner specifications.  No two of these cars are the same and therefore the birth of the phrase “it’s a doozy.” It’s my blog and I’ll post random crap if I want to.).

So congratulations TNT!  It still doesn’t suck!  I’m so impressed! You have stuck with the original music, the story lines are intriguing and actually have substance, and the characters are genuine (except Christopher…more on that later).  Now then, lets break down each of the characters.  

Let us begin with the easiest – John Ross.  You are quite a gem, good sir.  And an idiot. I mean seriously? You had to ask the question what does a deed to mineral rights mean? You are in the oil business.  I knew what that meant when your whiny baby of a cousin Christopher (I’ll plunge into that later) handed it to you.  But I still do think you are best friend material.  If nothing else, you know how to have a good time and have some delightful cars (I’m particularly partial to that black Corvette) and spending cash to boot. I don’t get your fascination with Elena other than the fact she is Genius Level 102 and you need someone like that.  God knows you are Moron Level -12 and aren’t improving with each episode.  But I still cheer for you. Oh and by the way, sucks for you they are going to pin Marta del Sol’s murder on you.  Cause you ain’t gonna make it in prison.  I’ll refrain from quoting Deliverance here and let you draw your own conclusions. 

Christopher oh Christopher, you still suck. I mean seriously, what were trying to do last night? Cry? Because you failed.  I spent more time screaming at the TV “for the love of God and all things holy if you are going to cry just do it!” Every time someone dropped a bombshell on you all I could think was dear God here come the pouty lips.  I swear I thought you were trying to perfect the teen girl Facebook photo. Quit it.  I want to like you Jesse Metcalfe, really I do.  I don’t know if it is the writing, the fact your character is a three year old in a thirty year old body, or you just suck as an actor. But you suck...I have no better word for it. And for the love of all things holy do we have to bring up the my-mommy-couldn’t-have-babies-so-daddy-bought-me-and-I’ll-never-be-a-Ewing-ever-oh-woe-is-me! in every freaking episode? 

Let. It. Go.

It really makes me want to punch you in the face.  Really, it does.  And the sad part of that is it seems you have much more time to dedicate to the gym than I do (actually if anyone spends more than five minutes in the gym, then that is five minutes longer than I do…I think a gym is hell on Earth) and for that reason I’m pretty sure you could kick my butt. I don’t like to think that a whiner like you could take me, but I know a fact when I see it.  If Rebecca had a brain in her skull she would dump your tail and find someone who has a pair. 

Bobby – your wife is a delightful person and a wonderful character…but she a fruit basket full of nuts. Girl got some psycho issues.  And I think you would be wise to get that checked out.  No one wants to wake up in the middle of the night with his wife standing over him with a butcher knife or a few gallons of gasoline while singing Hotel California and waving a lighter in the air. I truly feel life is going to suck a lot more for you before it gets better. 

J.R. – you’re still my hero. 

Sue Ellen – I still want to marry you. Call me maybe? 

Christopher – you suck. 

Warm Southern Days,

Russ

Dallas: An In-Depth Analysis of a Soap Opera and why I sometimes wish my last name was Ewing

 I’m a Dallas freak.  Plain and simple.  Oh, and I’ll go ahead and make this statement – I realize that this blog was intended only for details about my house, but as my previous track record has so aptly proven – I don’t typically follow my own rules. Oh yeah, and this is my blog.  So I’ll post what I want (insert cute smiley here).  That being said, for full effect in reading please imagine me sipping a glass of sweet tea and speaking with a Southern Aristocratic tone.  That being said, on with the show! Or blog!

Congratulations TNT!  It didn’t suck!  And I’m so glad it didn’t.  I wasn’t looking forward to having to drive to Atlanta to set fire to your boardroom table.  Thank you for impressing me.  You have big shoes to fill.  Though the beginning was rocky, by twenty minutes in I was shaking my fist at the television and having verbal altercations with the characters.

And to whoever made the creators keep the original theme song, I salute you.  Dallas is not Dallas without that French horn (or whatever instrument it happens to be) opening.  It gave me cold chills.  Really.

So Bobby is thinking about selling Southfork…which kind of makes me hope his cancer takes for thinking such blasphemy.  Preserving the land? Wonderful idea.  Selling the land?  Big ol’ mistake.  If I’ve learned anything from watching Dallas at warp speed (and warp speed means all thirteen seasons in one summer) it is NEVER TRUST ANYONE WITH ANYTHING in Soap Opera Land (I often times wish I lived in Soap Opera Land where I would have lovely tanned abs, no snaggle tooth, and no backfat all whilst driving any car I so choose…and my hair would remain perfectly coiffed even with the top down).

And John Ross, you good sir are the new boy everyone is going to love to hate. Not me.  I think you are best friend material…even if you have a chip the size of a small oak tree on your shoulder.  Perhaps we could share a glass of bourbon one afternoon? Alas, he loves the precious Elena…who was engaged to his cousin Christopher. While we are on the subject of Christopher, let me segue into that for just a moment.

Christopher:  you suck.  You are what? 28? 29? 30? At a minimum too old to continually whine about my-mommy-couldn’t-have-babies-so-daddy-bought-me-and-I’ll-never-be-a-Ewing-ever-oh-woe-is-me!  It was thirty years ago.  Let it go. Nobody likes the kid that constantly whines and plays the victim.  Grow a pair and move on.

Back to John Ross and Elena.  Kudos to you sir for picking a smart girl.  I like you and all (and still really think you are best friend material), but I don’t think you are the brightest bulb in the box.  Therefore that little email that was sent to Elena that Christopher claims he didn’t send and she accused you of sending? I believe you when you said that you didn’t send it.  Not because I believe you are a good guy, but because I don’t believe you are smart enough to know how.  Sorry.  You aren’t the email hacker kind of guy.  You are the hey-I’m-pretty-so-do-a-guy-a-favor-and-I’ll-take-off-my-shirt kind of guy.  But you may surprise me.  I do believe you are smart enough to know how to make money talk. After all, you are your daddy’s son.

J.R./Sue Ellen/Bobby/Ann, I’m so delighted to see original characters (plus one).  You will always have a special place in my heart (and in my home theatre).  The dynamic between these characters is still there…even after twenty years have passed.  My absolute favorite moment was when J.R. sauntered over to Sue Ellen to offer an apology for how rotten he was to her.  He may be old, but his still a charmer…and no one compares to him.  And after all these years, he still has a hold on Sue Ellen.  He knows it, and she knows it.  Bobby, what can I say? You were always the better son, but as J.R. so keenly pointed out – a fool.  And a fool who plays well into J.R.’s hands. 

More so than anything, I love the fact that even though Jock and Ellie have long since passed, their presence on Southfork and control over their children is still a resonating player.  Mentioning either of their names immediately garnishes a new respect from Bobby and J.R. 

Ah, the backstabbing and wheeling/dealing…it makes my heart go all pitter patter.  Especially when land is involved – for there is truly no greater possession.  The threats, the fights, the scheming, the cars (oh my the cars!) and the land, well they all make me wish my last name were Ewing.  There is nothing quite as refreshing as knowing that when you wake up in the morning, it instantaneously ruins another family member’s day.

Although I was a little disappointed with the set decorations (it felt rather blasé and middle class suburban for a family that should be over the top in every way) I could see that being the “new Southfork” of Bobby and Ann.  Whatever.

I’m thrilled to pieces with the countless twists and how all the plots integrate back to one central target – power and the keen ability to take it from someone else.  That was always the theme for any original Dallas episode, and I’m so glad they kept in timing.  As Jock said to Bobby (in I believe 1979), if I gave you power you got nothing.  Real power is something you take.

Greed? Power? Money? Oil? Sex? Count me in. As TNT said in its opening, the backstab never felt so good.

Warm Southern Days,

Russ