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
