“It’s just stuff,” said my friend. “You can’t take it with you.”

The “stuff” being mentioned didn’t include only the movable items that usually come under the “stuff” heading; the furniture, appliances, tools and other possessions that are scattered and stored everywhere. It also included the house itself. In the end, a house is just another piece of “stuff,” he asserted.

Circumstances are dictating that I put the house on the market, hence my good-intentioned friend’s desire to have me classify it as just another piece of “stuff.” I’m not sure I can fully accept such an emotionless approach to something that, for a fellow who comes up short on the Zen enlightenment scale, serves as a foundation, a marker of existence and proof of accomplishment.

But people sell houses all the time. In the end, a house – even an old one that’s been under restoration – is like pretty much everything else: a temporarily-bound collection of raw materials destined to change and change hands.

Old Walls Echo The Trampoline Giggles

This one served its purpose: It was a home where children were raised, pets were given shelter and burial, friends were entertained. Life was lived within its old walls (and inside them by heat-seeking rodents). On its patch of tilted lawn countless softballs were pitched, lacrosse balls were flung, sticks were chewed by dogs. Perimeter patches of ground were tilled and flowers were grown.

Christmas days, Thanksgiving dinners, Easter egg hunts, the highs and lows of marriage and family – the “stuff” of life – had a unique place to happen here. The yard echoed, and still does on sunny, warm days, with the laughter of kids in the pool and on the trampoline or swingset.

OK. So innumerable days were spent, and still are being spent, doing the hard work of removing layers of caked-on old paint, replacing rotted window sills and broken panes, tightening slates, mowing grass, painting/painting/repainting, sanding and hammering. I don’t think the effort was wasted time or wasted money even if it doesn’t equate into any meaningful increase in property value.

Despite periodic bouts of frustration and weariness (and a realization that the job would never be finished) the time spent fixing the old house brought pride, purpose, experience and honor. It enriched my soul even as it stole time that could have been spent on more relaxing endeavors.

I wanted the house to be perfect before putting it on the market. Clearly, that’s not going to happen. I can only say that some parts, especially the exterior walls, are in a lot better shape now than they were then. They weren’t sealed in vinyl siding. They were treated with respect.

I just have to stop worrying whether the next owners will do the same. I realize they might not. In fact, they might bulldoze the old girl. That, like the passing of time, is out of my hands.

I like to run, but I hate running on treadmills. If I’m going to exert as much energy as it takes to run, I at least want to cover some ground and go somewhere. I will never encounter black bears or see baby snakes or come across ripe blackberries while running in-place on a treadmill.

Maybe that’s why I sometimes find this house maintenance stuff discouraging. When you scrape and prime and paint something for the third time in less than seven years, the joy of accomplishment tends to fade. It becomes tantamount to running on a treadmill.

I’m beginning to feel that way about the rear deck. I went through great pains, only about three years ago, to prepare and prime and paint the fancy wood sections between the deck posts. At the time, the wood was in good condition.

Last week, I  noticed a bit of peeling paint, so out came one of the many scrapers piled up in the basement. As is usually the case with this situation, that small bit of loose paint turned out to be the tip of an iceberg.

Of Wood and Water

By the time I was finished, I found that large sections of my relatively new paint job had let loose. Even more upsetting was the fact that moisture had done a number on the quarter-round moldings. They literally crumbled when touched by the scraper.

What I’d neglected to do three years ago was seal with caulk the horizontal seam where those quarter-rounds met the vertical scrollwork sections. Water entered the unsealed crack and couldn’t escape. The constant dampness rotted the moldings and also caused the adjacent paint to let loose.

So, instead of going for a run on the next nice day, I’ll probably be climbing on the treadmill I call “fixing the deck.” It’s a form of redundant activity that uses few calories but does tend to burn through a lot of money.

I was questioning how the paint company Pratt & Lambert went about choosing the name “Maid of Orleans” for the shade of lavender that graces this house’s clapboards. It made me wonder if there was connection between light purple and Joan of Arc (the Maid of Orleans). Did the armor donned by the burned-at-the-stake seer-of-visions come in pale purple?

I searched, in vain, through the Voltaire poem La Pucelle d’Orléans. There were quite a few references to rosy cheeked women with firm bubbles and other types of “throbbing breasts” (as well as fleshy thighs), but nothing specifically lavender stood out.

I doubt the paint company’s decision had anything to do with speculation by some, including “The Lavender Locker Room” author Patricia Nell Warren, that Joan of Arc was genetically male. For sure, such a condition would be of deep interest to the gay, lesbian, bi and trans readership of “Lavender Magazine,” but I’ll eat my my paint brush if somebody can prove paint company color-namers are involved in that level of subtext.

Same Paint. Different Light.

All this thinking about exterior paint came about when the sun was setting this afternoon. Part of the house was in the shade and an another part was in the fading sunlight. The unusual light made the two sections appear to be painted with drastically different colors.

Over the years, this ability for Maid of Orleans to temporarily stop being lavender has intrigued me. Depending on the time of day and the presence of clouds or snow on the ground, the house can go from appearing pure white to deep purple or blue.

I guess that befits a paint color named after a woman who couldn’t be pigeon-holed.

When my house morphs from pale purple to baby blue, it’s just the Maid of Orleans listening to the advice of her saintly advisors and slipping into some menswear.

When Granny Smith Hits a Window

When you are a 14–year-old boy and your father is making up a song and singing it in an Indian accent, you really have no choice but to throw something at him.

So my son must be forgiven for grabbing an apple and whipping it.

I can’t say I didn’t get angry. I can say that I didn’t stay angry for too long. I’ve broken plenty of windows in the house, after all.

So, halfway through sweeping up the scattered shards, I went to the kid, who was upset, and gave him a hug.

It’s just a window,” I said. “No big deal.”

In fact, the incident inspired me to free the sash, one of the few that remained unmovable because people in the past insisted on painting them shut.

But now I have to decide whether to do it “right” by taking the entire window apart, stipping all the paint, fixing the glazing, etc.

That’s a lot of work. Could my singing have been that bad?