Golden Tinsel

Hey y’all,

Somehow this letter (I hate the term blog – it feels so technical – I feel like these are more a personal series of letters to each of you instead of communicating en masse) feels like it should be the close of a book, or at a minimum, a chapter. I suppose it in a way it may be. In that result, it is just a precursor to a new chapter or even a new book in a series.

Four nights ago, I nailed the final piece of trim in place in my house – well, now my home. It wasn’t some monumental occasion – it was a simple piece of trim on one of the beams in my living room. The trim snapped in place, the nails went in just like all the others, and it blended perfectly with the rest of the stained wood. But somehow, it was different. There was nothing left to nail. Nothing left to glue, to paint, to sand, to stain…to anything.

Almost two years to the day later, it was complete. Don’t get me wrong, there is still a punch list of tiny things to do. Clean the house from top to bottom (I’ll more than likely be adding a line item to my budget for “help” in the near future), landscaping, and polishing all the furniture. But essentially, the project in which I’ve been totally engulfed for the past two years was finished. I stood in my kitchen, hammer in hand, searching – yearning – for something else to nail, to paint, to glue, to sand, to stain…to anything. But found nothing. Suddenly, I found myself asking what next? And I’m still trying to figure that one out.

But I told you that story to tell you this story. I began cleaning my house shortly thereafter. Boxing up all of Dad’s tools, moving paint buckets into storage, and vacuuming up the three inches of dirt and sawdust that coated everything. In the process of cleaning my hearth, something shiny caught my eye - a single strand of golden tinsel – a tiny reminder from a Christmas that occurred at least four years ago hidden beneath a firewood rack. Through all the chaos, debris, and demolition, it stayed. I sat on the edge of the hearth and ran it through my fingertips.

And I cried like a damned fool.

Every Christmas in that room came flooding back. From the old C7 lights and homemade ornaments on the tree, to the green carpet, to the smell of the pecan pies in the kitchen, to the laughter of my family and my grandmother’s smile – all of it. Each year, it was my job each year to help my grandmother drape that golden tinsel across the fireplace. I miss it. But it was yet another subtle reminder – a reminder as to why I ever began this endeavor. As much as some of the memories sting, they are still mine. And the sting is shortly followed by an overwhelming warmth, and the reminder that this house isn’t just a house, it is and was and forevermore will be a home to my family and me.

Two years ago when I started this writing I had this grandiose idea that I would tell all about remodeling and the perils within, how to stretch a dollar, and repurpose as many things as possible and somehow get this massive list of followers (and perhaps a spread in Southern Living – which is still a goal but now with a different story, but I digress). Ha! Foolishness. No, this turned out to be a written documentary of my family history – and if I had to do it all over again, I wouldn’t change a bit. Watching my family grow up – holding their history in my hands – with all the pieces my grandmother left behind is worth more than any extravagant list of followers one could gain. Finding just a quarter of the many precious pieces I have would have made the journey worthwhile.

It’s been nothing less than an epic journey. I (along with my family) have spent many drops of tears, sweat, and blood on this house. And somehow, through it all, I feel like my grandmother has been right there guiding me every step of the way. I hope she’s smiling. I hope she likes it. I did this as much – if not more – for her as me.

So I want to say thank you – thank you for taking this journey with me. And to those of you who have contributed to seeing this house be a home – from the bottom of my heart, thank you. A lifelong goal of mine was to have a house furnished solely with antiques. Never in my wildest imagination would I have dreamt it would be with family heirlooms. From photographs to my maternal grandmother’s Christmas china to my paternal grandmother’s dining suite – every piece tells a story – a story of my family of and of my history. I’ve held a lot of titles, but none bring such high esteem and honor as being considered the “Curator of My Family History.” And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Warm Southern Days,
Russ

It Goes On

Hey Y’all, 

I’ve always considered myself a lucky man.  However, in recent times I’ve found out nothing could be further from the truth.  Luck is a misnomer in every sense of the word.  It implies coincidence. It implies chance.  It implies that I have somehow managed to manipulate my own fate.  

No, I’m not a lucky man – I’m a blessed man.  I think back to every single door God has slammed in my face leading to where I am today – what a fool! To think that is what I wanted instead of where I am today.  Idiocy.   And there are so many blessings around me.  My precious family, my home, my career and those that make it worthwhile, and my friends – my dear, precious friends - they are my blessings. 

One of my best friends asked to be a guest writer for my blog.  I had no idea what she planned to say – all I knew was deep honor and humility that she asked to do such.  Jessica has seen me through more than a body has a right.  She has seen me at my best, and she has seen me at my worst.  She listened to me ramble for two hours straight as I told the story of a Southern Widow who had everything but lost her family in the process.  And after much encouragement and being my editor-in-chief, she was my driving force behind writing my first book. She knows how much I love to write – evident in how I tend to be a little (or a lot) wordy and get lost in details.  She asked me to take her words and proof them  - fine tune them, if you will. I read her words. I cried over them.  Sometimes the best stories are in their purest form – unadulterated and straight from the heart: 

“One of my best friends is remodeling his house. It was his grandmother’s house and the place where his mother was raised. His grandmother and grandfather built the house and filled it with three kids and lots of memories.....and never threw anything away! Since the death of his grandmother and his acquisition of the house my friend has spent a lot of time going through all the memories and documenting the process of remodeling it on a blog and Facebook. He has focused on the memories he found tucked away in closets and what those walls have seen. Russ has an affinity for personifying this house, breathing life into its walls, and bringing all the memories that have been made there come to the forefront. I must say, however, that he has overlooked a big part of this house’s personality over the last two years. He has focused on the past, on the memories of days gone by, and in the process he has (we have) made a few memories of our own. As his remodeling process comes to an end, I can’t help but look back over all that has already happened in his house before he has even spent one night there. 

From day one I have had an open invitation at this house. I have seen it from its pristine, timeless beginning to it’s gutted hollow mess, and now I’m seeing him fill it back up again. I’ve spent many nights over there watching him work and talking. I’ve also gone through every closet, drawer, and cabinet (even the ones in the basement). I’ve tried on every prom dress I could find. It was sooo much fun to play dress up like a life-sized Barbie. I’ve also cried in 6 of the 10 rooms upstairs, we have had deeep discussions in every room except 2, and we have spent several evenings enjoying the wonderful front porch. This house has been a huge remodeling project for Russ. He has spent more money and time than I am willing to calculate changing the inside of this house and in the process it has changed us. It has been a place for us to go where prying parents can’t hear our rants and raves. It was where I felt safe when a boy broke my heart. It has been the project that kept Russ’s sanity when he felt he was gonna lose it. I think we have worked out the problems of the world between those walls if people would just listen to us! As his remodeling process comes to an end, I can’t help but look back over all that has already happened in his house before he has even spent one night there. I can’t even guess what the next few years will bring and what memories will be made when he starts having real guests!!”

Jessica, I can't tell you what these words mean to me - there simply aren't enough words in the English language.  I'll treasure them always. 

Seven years ago (God, does that leave a bitter taste in my mouth) I wrote a note on Facebook about a funeral.  It was funeral for my parents’ best friend’s mother.  It had been a number of years since my parents’ had seen their nearest and dearest friends.  I remember seeing my mother hug this woman – this woman she had shared her secrets with - intimate parts of her life which I’ll never understand and a past that began long before I was ever thought about.  And for a brief moment, I saw the twenty-something girl inside my mother and the twenty-something boy inside my father surface in their eyes.  They were with friends again.  

At a funeral. 

Frankly, it scared the hell out of me.  I was next in line for this.  I was next in line for college degrees and relationships and weddings and children and funerals.  And through all of that, life would progress.  Friends would be made.  Friends would be lost. Would I only see my best friends because of a funeral?  Seven years ago, I had five best friends: Jessica, Julia, Courtney, Josh, and Tara. Seven years later, with college degrees earned and relationships made and relationships lost and weddings and children and houses and cars and moves - I still have five best friends holding my hands: Jessica, Julia, Courtney, Josh, and Tara.  I’ve never been one to keep my emotions hidden.  When I’m happy, it is jubilation.  When I’m anything but, it is written all over my face like a flashing neon sign.  And these five people have seen me through every bit of it.  I’m not sure how or why I have each of you in my life, but you are my family.  And I would be remiss if I didn’t say I love each of you dearly. 

I’m reminded of Robert Frost and his philosophy: “I can sum up life in three words – it goes on.” 

Yes, Mr. Frost, it does.  It certainly does. But it sure is a lot better when you have friends that are more like family than anything else.  Thank you for helping me make my house a home.  And thank you for making this a life that isn’t just another walk down the road, but a path that has made all the difference. 

Lucky? No.  Blessed?  Absolutely. 

Warm Southern Days,
Russ