In The End, It All Works Out

I watched as lightning lit up the room through the sky-light windows right above us. We felt safe and sound, wrapped in our sleeping bags and afghans as we huddled together on the living room floor. It reminded me of watching fireworks from a friend's back porch one July as we "oohed" and "ahhed" as the flashes over East Park seemed like they were right over our own backyard.

            We had just moved into our new condo and decided to camp out together on the living room floor since everything was still packed in boxes. Tomorrow would be another tough day of unpacking and figuring where to put everything and for the first time during our whole ordeal I was actually happy that we had so few possessions. Our new, empty home looked roomy without the clutter that would soon accumulate, like it always does.

            I glanced down at my two bed-mates and noticed they were fast asleep. The day had tired them out with the excitement of exploring a new place and surrounding woods. They had spent most of the day running all around the project checking out every nook and corner as I dutifully carried boxes from our car into the house. They were eight and ten years old and the project was off the main road so I was not too worried, asking only that they check in at regular intervals so I knew I hadn't lost them. They checked in a million times, mostly just to tell me what they had discovered. Each time they found a new path, or friend they knew from school, they reported back to me excitedly, talking so fast I had to give them my undivided attention. Thus, the unfinished packing. It was one of the best days we had in a long time.

            I had felt neither this freedom from worry nor joyfulness in their early years and it made me smile as I watched them play. After struggling with their father in the beginning and finally calling it quits, I came across the opportunity to move to Sterling and purchase a dilapidated antique colonial that appeared on the market as a "gem from yesteryear."  It had been condemned and  was being offered at a fraction of average home value. Time was running out as I was unable to pay for the mortgage of the former marital home. I jumped at the chance to save the small hope of good credit I had left and I "stole" the antique gem just in time to put the kids back to school in September. I would have moved into a tent if I could have locked the front door to keep my children safe.

            This house (which came to be referred to as the "140 House") had solid walls, a big back yard and the neighborhood bar across the street—which was a definite perk I was planning on taking advantage of when the occasion rose. My plan was to complete the necessary improvements to the house and sell it in a few years taking the profit and buying our first permanent home as a new, smaller family. Little did I know how much work this would involve and how sick one could become from lead paint poisoning. I worked my hands until they were bloody every spare moment I was not at a day job, removing the old and replacing it here and there, where needed. I burned the old wood in a fire pit in the yard to save on dumpster fees late at night while I collapsed in a lawn chair beside an elderly neighbor who wandered over often. He drank instant Sanka with whiskey and brought me a coffee mug full when he came as though he were offering a homemade pie. His name was Myron and he had a jet black labrador retriever. Jake sat at his side as Myron told me stories of Sterling when he was a boy on the farm. His visits made the nights pleasant and provided a good distraction to my self-pity from body aches and pains. We could hear the ruckus from the bar and I was grateful for not missing the socializing I might be doing there. I got the feeling Myron was tired of the bar-scene too where at 91, I am sure he had his fill.

            During the four years I worked on the 140 House, Myron had a few adventures that we would talk about later and eventually, I realized he would need to move somewhere safer. Once, I skipped a rainy night outside at the fire pit and turned on the news instead. They started talking about a "Sterling man" who had gone lost in the woods behind Eight Points Sportsman's Club. I called a friend from the club who Myron had introduced me to as an old bar-mate, before I even heard the name being announced on the air. Sure enough, Myron had attempted to hunt at the opening of deer season and had gotten lost when the darkness crept up on him. He wasn't scared at all, he'd tell me later, simply lost. He knew if he settled down to sleep, he'd find his trail that led the way back in the morning light, thinking, "no biggie."  His daughter, however, became frantic when she couldn't find him that evening and reported him missing. It was a cold night, but Myron swears he wasn't cold, just enraged at being woken up at 3:00 a.m. by a herd of Sterling residents tracking through the woods with flashlights and scaring any remaining deer away for the rest of the season. They took his hunting license away the next day, which was a sin because I honestly felt that his man, at his age, had it together better than anyone ever would.

            Myron was a packrat, the kind that has a backyard that looked like a junk car lot and you could find the empty shell of anything there. My son would spend hours over there, checking out the cars and fishing pollywogs out of a pond on the property. There were blueberry bushes growing up in between the junk heaps and old bathtubs to fill with pond water and frogs. Myron would make my son cheese and mustard sandwiches for lunch. My son would come home covered with mosquito bites and mud but always smiling. He'd spend time with Jake the lab and a neighbor's boy from the other side and it got him away from the construction dust that I was kicking up so I was grateful to Myron for letting him play there. My daughter, who spent more time inside, was happy her younger brother was out of her hair.

            My work on the house was going well for a couple years when I noticed an awful smell coming from the junk in Myron's back yard. I had written off his latest absence as a Sportsman's Club thing, thinking he might be walking over there at night to be with the guys. I took a walk over the next day, through the back and spotted him on the deck. He was tossing a garbage bag over the deck into the back yard in the only clean spot that wasn't covered in cars and appliances and I startled him when I asked him what he was doing. He gave me kind of a blank look and to close an awkward pause, I asked jokingly if he remembered  that the bags had to be tossed out front, on the curb for pickup. He thought about this for a moment, looked at the heap and answered "ain't nothing I can do about it now", and walked back inside. This was upsetting and I didn't really know what to make of it so I went back home. As I looked at the pile, I noticed a rat, nibbling in broad daylight. It didn't seem too far out of its natural habitat and I figured in his aging mind, Myron was doing what he always did, sharing his land and food with a few more back-yard guests. I knew I'd have to call his daughter eventually, whom he had not spoken to since the hunting incident. Within the next few weeks, she beat me too it and called  to ask me to check up on him. He had come out to the fire a few times, but I hadn't seen him for a while. I had a chance to tell her about the trash but tried to keep it in perspective for Myron's sake. I agreed to go over to check on him and call her back.

            I had been invited into Myron's home many times, to have Sanka, see Jake or just sit and visit during the cold and rainy nights. It was the home of a hoarder, but everything was kept in neat rows along the perimeter walls. He had a small living room with a chair, TV and tray table where he and Jake sat most of the time and when I visited, we sat in the kitchen. I decided to come in the front door because the garbage out back smelled bad and I knocked loudly. Myron came right to the door, wondering why I was banging so hard knowing he sat right out front. He turned and I followed him in.

            I was not prepared for what I saw. He looked pale and thin, his lips were cracked and he was limping. Jake had relieved himself on the floor several times and Myron had made no attempt to pick up the mess. He sat, in the chair with the TV on and Jake perked up when he saw me, but obviously lethargic from malnourishment. My heart sank. Even though the smell inside was far worse than outside, I gently approached him and asked him if he or Jake had eaten anything tonight. He didn't even answer so I offered him leftover soup I had on the stove. I looked him right in the eye and told him I'd be right back with the soup.

            As I ran across our yards, the tears started coming and I felt overwhelmed. My focus was on letting them both eat before the "residents" with the flashlights showed up again because I knew this would be upsetting. After calling Myron's daughter and explaining that she was needed,  I grabbed the soup and some bowls and headed right back over. As Myron and Jake ate the soup, I found a brown bag and cleaned up all the messes. I washed the floor with a rag and opened the front door to let fresh air in. Then I got a kitchen chair, brought it in the living room, sat beside Myron, held his hand and waited.

            Telling my children about Myron was hard because they knew how much I needed him and I knew how much they needed him and he had become the first consistent person we had in our lives since the divorce. He somehow made us feel safe and now he'd be gone, just like that. They say that all things happen for a reason, and seeing people taking Myron away and taking over his property was the catalyst Ineeded to realize it was time to find our new home. After all, this old house was just a stepping stone and I could have worked on it forever and it still would not be finished so it was time to cash in with what we had and we put it up for sale.

            It took a while for the 140 House to sell high enough to give us a profit to put down payment on a permanent home but the kids and I went out looking with a realtor right away. We knew our new home had to be young because the renovating was killing us. We knew it had to be among people because it was scary being alone (we realized this between the time they took Myron away and when the house sold.) And most of all, it had to have woods around it because after our failed start, we all felt trapped and confined way too long to be without space. When the realtor took us for a drive-by through the condo complex, we were speechless. Right away, I knew it was everything a mother could ever give her children and I knew I had to make it work. The units did not come up for sale often and the 140 House had not sold yet, but we were already talking among ourselves as though we lived there. Two months later, we had a buyer and a week after that, our realtor offered full price on a unit in Stillwater on my behalf. How could the owners say no?  Both sales went through smoothly and we began packing for our big—and hopefully last—move.

            The day we left, we paused to take a last sweeping look at the 140 House and Myron's home and then drove out of the driveway. Life has a funny way of guiding single mothers, helping us make it up as we go along. We all learn that the stability we thought we had is an illusion and change is the only thing that is certain. The universe sends us angels in disguise to watch over us and help us keep going. Somehow, in the end, it all works out.