Three Years

by Donna Schoenkopf

Three years.

Been here three years.

Has this house, this land, been affordable? Emotionally? Monetarily? Environmentally? Politically? Artistically? Physically?

Here is a list of what costs me (emotionally, monetarily, and all the rest) and what pays me back (emotionally, monetarily, and all the rest.) I have alternated the bad with the good—what I have to put up with and what makes life worthwhile.

There is dirt in the white rafters. Dirt. Not dust. And it’s laid smoothly over the upper latitudes of the round metal air duct that runs down the middle of my house.

There is honest-to-God grass, thick grass, in my front and south yards. And it’s cut and neat and trim.

The concrete floor is never clean. It is swept and vacuumed and occasionally mopped. But as far as getting every last bit of not-supposed-to-be-there material, no. Nor can it ever be its beautiful, pristine self of long ago.

I have rigged a long, two-piece, clear, flexible plastic hose from my washer to my east yard to take the pressure off my already saturated septic system and dump the gray water on the struggling grass there. It works. HAH!

There are tiny spots of god-knows-what on the white, beautifully stuccoed walls.

My house stays amazingly cool during the morning but needs air conditioning by fiery noon until the sun is just beginning to set. All through the evening and night, no air conditioner. Just open sliding glass doors and the fans moving overhead keep the air moving and cool. Very soft and nice.

 The kitchen cabinets have fingerprints and spills in their hard to reach parts.

 My wooden cutting boards, made from planks of poplar, get more gorgeous every day. They are a perfect size, 1' X 2', to pick up and bring to the sink and with a swish of water and a spritz of vinegar are put back where they come from.

The laminate countertop is stained.

I finally have a foolproof way to remind myself of things I need to do. I have a dry erase board, a small one, on the wall next to my back door.

The bathroom is no longer pristine. The white grout of the oversized white tiled shower with the graceful rain shower head is the red orange of the dirt outside and on the floor.

The bathroom is still beautiful, in spite of its growing age.

The paint around the back door’s jamb is peeling.

I found a bunch of different sized boards and made a walkway from the back door deck, along the north wall of the house, to my compost pile. Which is glorious. It is its pure unadulterated self. Its history begins with a pile of compost from Peewee’s steers which was three-quarters used on the lawn. That was followed by kitchen raw vegetable scraps. Then regular watering. I now have tomatoes, cantaloupes, watermelons (I think), clover, many different kinds of grasses, fleabane, and sunflowers.

There are tiny broken bits of screen where Che the Cat climbs the screen to let me know he wants in.

I have some boards that got warped during our rains that now look great as low borders along the front yard.

The area rugs are full of pet hair. And my hair.

My Bissell push sweeper is the most efficient of all my vacuums and brooms. Believe it or not.

There is a lime stain in my toilet.

My septic system is no long leaking. HAH!

Some of the deck boards are warping and one has cracked.

The deck has saved me from the mud of spring and winter. HOORAY!

A thicket has grown under the little grove of oak trees down by the pond.

I have lopped off some of the scrubby underbrush of the thicket all the way to the ground with my fabulous giant branch-lopping shears.

All eight of my sliding glass windows have the elements of the inside and outside worlds smeared on them. Dirt, muddy paw prints, hand prints, rain.

The scenery is so magical outside that you don’t notice the dirty windows.

My overhead fans have dirt and dust caked on top of their blades.

They are always turning, so nobody can see it.

I feel out of place sometimes.

I feel like I belong sometimes.

I work so hard I get tired beyond belief and feel like I’m going to croak.

I rest without anyone bothering me or needing anything and consequently get what I need to knit my raveled sleeve of care.

I live in Tornado Alley and sometimes it scares me and I want to run away.

I live in Tornado Alley and sometimes the experience of real crazy weather heightens my senses and makes me feel alive.

I see things die ... plants, animals, people.

I see things get born ... the seeds I’ve sown, the animals I love, and the people who are my friends and family.

I miss my children and wish that I were with them so I could hold them and kiss them and talk to them.

I’m glad I’m away from my children so that they can find themselves and figure out the world and realize their power.

I miss my friends in California and want to drop in on them for their dear company.

I have new friends here who are showing great promise.

I miss the fabulous restaurants and food and produce of California.

I am cooking more and sharing it with friends who seem to really like it. Sometimes.

I don’t have enough money to do all the things I want to do.

Who does?

My animals get hurt by being out and about in the country. Diego the Dog hurt his foot, ate the neighbor’s rat poison, gets cuts from barbed wire, and picks up ticks. Che the Cat now has only three legs. Angela Davis is REALLY covered in ticks. Rosie the Cat got ringworm.

I have a great veterinarian and he’s cheap. And I can pay it off if I can’t afford it at the moment.

I have bumped into several groups that think I’m going to Hell, and that I am a bad influence in the world.

I have found two groups, the environmentalists and the Democrats, into which I fit. Or as much as I ever do.

I have so many insects that I am covered in bites and itchiness and a grossed-out feeling.

The insects are incredibly interesting and there are some that I’ve never seen before.

It is horribly hot and humid here in the summer.

It is unbelievably green and lush here in the summer.

After writing this list I can honestly say that my house is affordable. Although I feel the price to be a bit much sometimes, I don’t find myself packing and walking out the door.

So far. So good.

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