Everyday Stranger

The Scent and the Feeling

On my keychain are two new keys, long, straight silver keys that open the door to my own world of contentment. In order to put my new keys to life, I had to remove the two keys that I have had on there, two burnished silver keys that unlocked a door to a lovely house in Sweden, a house and a country and a man that no longer own me. I removed the keys-surprisingly with little pain, just a small smile-and dropped them into a box.

That part of me is going now.

The move went surprisingly well. In spite of my thoughts that what I owned lay in two suitcases and a yellow postal box, Mr. Y and I managed to-after two IKEA visits-actually accumulate 4 minivan trips worth of goods. We are nearly done, just some odds and ends and the hanging clothes to move tonight, and with every movement of an arm or a trip into another room, we settle into the skin of our new life in Whitney Houston.

Whitney Houston is a tiny village on the outskirts of two larger towns. Our neighborhood is very clearly populated largely by DINKs-Double Income, No Kids-who spend their mornings and evenings commuting and spend their evenings and weekends trying to unwind as quickly as possible. The village is perhaps on the posh side-a real bakery, no less than 3 wine shops, 2 antique shops, and a children’s dance clothing shop are a few of the odd stores on the “High Street” (the U.S. equivalent of a Main Street).

The house itself is amazing. It’s perhaps 150 years old or so, part of a row of terraced houses. The walls are painted a comforting off-white color, and in the living room there is a dark black pot-bellied iron stove. In the dining room (which is currently empty) is an open fireplace, and the kitchen has been updated recently, with light and white in all corners. Up the steep and tiny staircase is the bedroom, study, and bathroom. And in every room but the master bedroom are the original floorboards of the house, old wooden beams with original black square nail heads holding them in place. The wood is so worn that it’s smooth to the bare foot, and I love sliding my foot back and forth over the boards, trying to imagine the people that were barefoot on the boards before me, who they were, how they felt.

And if they loved the house as much as I do.

The weather, up until today, has been sunny and lovely, so we keep the front door and back door open, the windows open, access to the breeze and the sun our greatest priority. Light floods the rooms, and the smell of cut grass, sunshine, laughter, cardboard boxes, and hope floats in through the rooms. There are a number of neighborhood cats around, all black and white, and all of them making me absolutely ache for my girls in Sweden, my precious black and white beauties that should be here in about 6 months. One bold creature, with a plaid collar marked by shiny brass bells that tinkle his arrival, boldly walks in and out of our house. The first time he was marked by hesitancy-would we shoo him out? Do we hate cats?-but, upon realizing that he had some friends, would settle for a scratch and a snooze and then wander back out into our garden.

After the first IKEA visit on Saturday, Mr. Y busied himself assembling all the bedroom furniture, while I spent my time potting flowers. I didn’t really understand myself why it was that I wanted to tackle a rather less urgent task-there were boxes to be put in the right rooms and unpacked, things to be organized, little jobs by the dozens that were needed. But I parked myself outside, the black and white cat my company. All I knew was that my hands had to be in the dirt, the flowers had to have homes. I had bought a number of patio flowers and window box flowers, and the urge to get them in their place my only thought, even as a little sprinkle of rain pattered down on me, prompting my mate the cat to bail on me.

And despite my inability to grow roses, I bought a rosebush, too. One called “Happy Times”, a vivid orange-pink. Between that, and the lavender I bought (for luck) I have to hope and think that it’s a new beginning.

Mr. Y threads his way into me from time to time, wrapping his arms around me. “You seem so happy, and I love seeing you so happy.” He nuzzles into my hair, my neck, my mind. We eat a large curry on the floor of our living room (couch would be the next day) and drink champagne with each other. We initiate the bedroom and our bed and I lay with my head on his shoulders, as he whispers and kisses my forehead and makes me think luscious things.

The next IKEA visit doesn’t go so well, we have a bust-up that we get over in due time, the place and rush of people on a holiday weekend getting on our nerves and getting on our sensitivities. We haul home the rest of the household-a couch, a desk, amenities that we realized we needed. Once home we finish the rest of the house and make up. I cook our first real meal there, just a small Italian meal that is easily made and easier eaten.

Our neighbors, in fits and starts, meet us. Ted and Lori in Number 9. David in Number 7. One helps us move our couch. They have open smiles and kind faces. They tell us of barbecues the neighborhood has, of get-togethers and community. Mr. Y introduces me as his partner, which elicits a thrill and a shock in me. “Hello, I am Helen.” I say, and shake hands, wondering if they will be people I can be friends with, wondering if I can be friends with people, wondering if this is the beginning or the middle.

And the moments that I sneak in the house are filling my soul. I love the house so fiercely, and it’s not even my house, only a rental that I am using as a pumping station to restore the level fluid in my soul. Standing in the kitchen, I know that this is not the place I will live forever, that there is more ahead. But for me this house is not a climb-down, as I simply care too much about it already. And something in the privacy of the walls and the quiet in the neighborhood bring out parts of me that I never knew I had-that I can move and not get stressed to bits. That I can have patience. And it brings other parts of me out more and multiplies them by one thousand-I cuddle next to Mr. Y at night and get choked at how fucking much I love this man. Slipping my hand up and down his back, I don’t tell him these thoughts but let them circle in our bed-our bed-and hope they make their way into his dreams.

Standing in the kitchen during the afternoon yesterday, the sun shining in the room and illuminating the blood red geraniums I have in the windowsill. The open door brings a lazy, dozy bee or two in from time to time, smacking the window angrily to get access again to the timesheet of the hive. The smell of the lilacs in the backyard drifting in, a heady scent that I want to implant in my heart. The sound of a leather cricket ball cracking against a willow cricket bat, and then the shouts and joy of the men playing, circles into the room and makes me smile. Upstairs, I hear Mr. Y’s drill whizzing away and he sings loudly, from time to time, a few verses of “Stand By Your Man”, making me laugh.

All of these flood my senses and make me love the house just that much more. And maybe this is just calm before a storm-I tend to swing up and down, after all, and the dam of family and custody issues is still threatening to break out from the tiny trickle that it is today-but all I know is I am so happy here, that I so love every inch of this house and every stick of furniture in it, and that this is the happiest I have been since…

-H.

PS-The latest Best of Me Symphony is up here.

Posted by Everydaystranger at June 1, 2004 11:47 AM | TrackBack