Thoughts on a Main St. house

There is a home I drive past most days on my way to pick up Hardy from preschool. It is currently for sale, and has been since not long after we moved to down (so for approximately two years).

It is a bargain at a mere $1.2 million dollars, and I can't quite fathom why Justin and I have not scooped it up! In all seriousness, I feel it is overpriced by at least $600,000.

I feel a certain sadness for this empty house whenever I pass it. It's like the forgotten old woman in the nursing home who was once vibrant and full of life, the center of her world. Now no one stops and visit and listen to tales of adventures (both true and imagined) long past.


I think about the things this house has witnessed over the years since it was built in 1907. The same year it was built, the Tennessee College for Women opened its doors across the street, with 199 pupils. The college was run by the Southern Baptist Convention, and the property the College was erected on had held some sort of educational institution on its lot for the past 60 years. The College held its first May Day celebration in 1910. Imagine a lawn full of girls in white dresses, dancing under poles wrapped in ribbons and flowers. It is an image from a bygone era. Being a graduate of a university that was established exclusively for women, I wonder if the College had the same goofy traditions as we did. Was there a Kissing Rock on its ground, an Old Maids Gate? What type of social life developed there? The old house probably saw lots of women studying diligently on its lawn, hurrying to classes, wrapped up in dreams until the demise of the College in 1946.


The lot has also been the home of Central High School, which is now Central Middle School, since 1946. Imagine all the teenagers this home has seen hurry past her, hoping fervently they were not late to class or had not forgotten their homework. I can almost make out the students walking from school to the Square after school, going to one of the various soda shops or ice cream parlors which once called the Square home.



The lot has witnessed countless parades - 4th of July parades and Christmas parades. I wonder if there were once Veteran's Day parades in this town, and if so, they would have passed in front of this grand old dame. The house watched General Douglas MacArthur parade past the house when he visited Murfreesboro with his wife (a native of our town) in 1951. The picture at the top is from the MacArthur parade in 1951. On an unrelated note, I am saddened to know that Mrs. MacArthur's family home was razed many years ago, and is now a parking lot at the hospital.

After being in the midst of so much bustling, of so much life being lived, it is almost inexpressibly sad to think of this house, standing alone, seemingly unwanted. Perhaps one day the right owner will come along to bring this house back into the midst of life again. Or as my economist husband would say, perhaps one day the current owner will realize the home is overpriced and lower the price.

Hoarding

My sweetheart and I have started watching a disturbing show on A&E. It's "Hoarding" and follows the lives of hoarders. Each episode focuses on 2 hoarders and their struggle to overcome hoarding. It is disturbing for many reasons, one of which is the brokenness you see in each of the individuals. The hoarding has left these people in danger of eviction, has robbed several of them of their relationships, and has apparently worn them down. It is evident that hoarding must be a mental illness because of its ability to withstand reason. Even when threatened with the loss of home and love, the hoarders are unable to release the items that hold them hostage.



Another reason it is so disturbing is that we can some of these traits in our own sweet son. He never wants to throw anything away. He tries to keep the wrapping paper from presents (insisting he loves it and wants to play with it). He hangs on to toys he has not touched for months, and breaks down if you try to give it away. If he knew how many times Mommy has snuck in with a garbage bag and culled the toys during preschool he would probably refuse to ever leave the house without me again.



Watching the show has made me realize that we are all hoarders in a way. Most of us do not hoard useless stuff (I for one can't imagine ever saving empty pill bottles) but we do hoard other things. We hoard negative feelings about ourselves. How many women hold on to the negative thoughts that our thighs will never be thin enough, that our bellies are too "poochy", that we are too short or too tall or too thin or too anything? Instead we should accept ourselves for what we are - flawed, imperfect beings that nevertheless manage to achieve great things. I believe that achievement is due to God's grace.



We also hoard other things, things that we would do better to get rid of. We hoard grudges (I still hold a grudge over a boy in elementary school telling me he was better than me because he was a boy. While I took care of that one by promptly beating the tar out of him, I still glower as I pass his old house. And I will note that I did not get in trouble for beating him up once my pro-feminist mother learned the reason why I acted the way I did.) We hoard anger, low self-esteem, and all other manner of things that conspire to keep us from leading the full and rich lives we are capable of and that deserve. I think we hold on to these things because greatness and richness scares us. Better to lead the life we know than to reach out, let go of the "stuff" we hoard, and lead that better life. We don't know where that richer life will lead us, what it will demand of us. So my task today (and for the rest of my days) is to try to let go of the things I hoard, and to reach out for the brighter, larger things ahead. The things that scare me, the things that I secretly long to do but fear failure, the things that seem so hard.



I don't think I will accomplish this anytime soon. I have been hoarding the bad stuff for years, so I can't think that letting go will be accomplished in a day. But it will be better to work on letting go than on staying the same and letting the hoarder in me win.

Stalking

I must confess I am a stalker. I stalk real estate, specifically older homes. I prefer to stalk homes built before 1950. These homes have a charm that most newer homes (mine included) are lacking. Added to that charm is the sense that these homes have contained so many human emotions in their walls over the years - love, hatred, apathy, jealously, betrayal, angst, happiness, joy, etc.


It borders on a sickness sometimes. I am almost OCD in the homes that I stalk. I must, if possible, drive or bike past them every day. I almost never achieve this on the weekends, when I try to maintain a veneer of sanity. But during the week, when there is a boy to be taken to preschool and fetched back, when there are errands to be run, watch out. That is when I let my freak flag fly, so to speak. If they are for sale, I religiously follow the ads, remarking on every drop in price to my ever patient husband. I ponder the type of buyer that would be interested, and daydream about purchasing the house when I win the lottery (which I never play).

Right now I am stalking 4 homes in the Boro. They are all downtown and built prior to 1950. When I am biking, I can see at least three of them. I start by going past the lovely brick cottage on 2nd Avenue. It looks like what I have always pictured a college professor's house to look. It is built of a warm red brick and has a double lot. There are old trees, scattering their leaves. I managed to go to an Open House for this one once. It is beautiful inside, and I can picture my family quiet happily ensconced there (especially in the kitchen with its 3 pantries. For a woman lacking one pantry, 3 seems like exotic riches to me).


I then, through various twists and turns, always keeping one ear on the children to make sure they are still in one piece, turn down College St. There, on the right, is a lovely brick home, built in the first decade of the twentieth century . Because I am sick, I managed to go to an estate sale once at this home, mainly so I could gawk inside to my heart's content.


It was lovely albeit a bit strange inside. There was one room that I have not yet determined its true purpose. Two bunk beds are built into the wall (which charmed me immediately). You walk a bit further into the room, turn a corner, and run right into a toilet. Yes, a toilet and sink. So I am not sure if this is the bathroom you use when you have the flu and can't climb the stairs to go back to bed, or if this is where you put the guests you did not want to visit to begin with.


The next house I hit is down the street. It is a lovely blue wooden house, built in 1912. It has the best porch. I can imagine sitting on this porch, waiting for the kids to come home, watching the leaves fall.


The fourth house, on Lytle, I do not get to stalk as often. It is across the street from a school, and again, has that faux English Tudor look that I imagine is popular with the professorial set.


I think as humans we are all hard-wired to search for something. The hunt changes over the years, and takes various forms. Some see it as a hunt for meaning, a reassurance that there is some purpose to this life. Some see it as an expression of unhappiness with one's current life, a desire to escape to where life would presumably be better.


I do not think my search and stalking of these unsuspecting homes is necessarily a desire for a better home. I like my little house, and like having a house I can clean in just a couple of hours. (Why they did not put more closet space in these 60s ranchers is a question for another day). I do not think it is a desire for a different life. I happen to like the life I lead. Why I am compelled to seek out and stalk older homes is not something I quite understand myself.


It may be in part a desire for a simpler time. I always joke to my husband that I apparently want to move to the 1930s, a time when I would live downtown and walk everywhere, become a regular at the City Cafe, etc. Not that the 1930s were simpler for everyone, or that everyone was glad about all that simplicity that the Depression forced on everyone. I think deep down I want to live in a place and a time when you weren't expected to have a cell phone and to always have it with you. When you walked places instead of drove. When you knew all the friends of your children and their parents. When you didn't run crazily around, going to soccer and choir, playtimes and museums in a quest to make your children more intelligent. When you sat on your porch and visited with neighbors and family. When Sunday afternoons meant a nap, not more work.


So the thought I am left with today is that I wish to live in a mythical time and place. So instead of wishing my life away, perhaps I will try my best to make this life and this time a time of wonder, of laughter, of joy, and of grace.

Thoughts on History

Sitting in class tonight (a very interesting survey class about African American History), points were made that has left me pondering identity. The professor, in response to complaints about difficulties in reading the text, suggested imaging yourself in the situation you are reading about. So if you are reading about slavery in the Chesapeake in 1800 and you find yourself drifting off or making your grocery list, imagine what life would have been like for YOU during that time period.



In thinking about slavery in Tennessee in say, the 1840s, I would like to think I would have been quietly subversive, quick to see the terrible immorality in the system. Surely, I think, I would have known how soul-destroying slavery is and what have stood up for right, for abolition, for equality.



And then I think, why would I have done that? In placing myself in 1840, I have to realize that I would not be the person I am today in 2009. I would not have attended public schools with other races and faiths. I may not have been formally educated past an elementary level. I would not have gone to a couple of inner-city schools, seeing first hand some of the endemic poverty of the area. I may not have been raised to believe that I have a voice, a viewpoint worth considering. So would I have been subversive? To my great regret, I do not know if I would have.



Consider the cost of speaking out. Social shunning, economic consequences are just a few of the costs. In addition, I may not have been raised to believe that all people (and not just all white people) are equal. So in the face of loss of social standing (not just from the community but from family), what would I have done? Looking deep in the recesses of my soul, in the spots where I try to keep everyone, even Christ, out of, I see something that makes me tremble. I may have been silent.



I fear I would have been silent if I had children. I love my children deeply, and can not imagine doing something that may harm them. I love my husband to bits, but would I do something that may damage his career?



I don't know definitely what I would have done, and I never can know. I was not raised in the 1800s, but now, so I can never truly place myself in that situation. The exercise does show me that I am weaker than I thought, and that I fervently hope I am never placed in such a situation.

My thoughts before I go to bed are a bit blue, a bit grim. Humanity seems to call for me to speak out for the oppressed, for the voiceless. But life, and a love of the life I lead, intervenes, and I ponder whether I have the courage to be the woman I feel God calls me to be. I pray that I find the courage and the conviction to always speak out for the forgotten, to draw attention to sin, and to always do what is right.

First Blog

Wow, apparently I have spontaneously decided to start a blog. We'll see how this goes...might not let anyone know about it.

So, thoughts.....hmm, that is tricky. Being a stay-at-home mom, my thoughts are often scattered, interrupted by frequent injunctions to the kids ("no, your sister does not like to be buried in blankets" "no Ellie, it is not fun to dance on chairs). I rarely finish a thought, so this may be an exercise in stream of consciousness.

The best thing about the trip to pick up Hardy at preschool is the beautiful drive there. I always take Main Street to University Street, driving slowly to drink in as many details as possible about the beautiful houses. I then take University to College so I can drive by one particular house on College St. that I love. I imagine what it would have been like to live there 50 years ago, or 100 years ago. Sometimes I drive around the Square and ponder all the different types of gatherings the courthouse lawn has seen over the years. I imagine the Federal barricades during the Civil War. I imagine bustling Saturdays, as people came to town to buy things. I imagine teenagers walking hand in hand, reveling in their young love. In short, I am thankful I live in an old town that gives me a lot of things to daydream about.