Earlier this summer, I wrote about preparing to move from one great, beautiful home to a house that’s, well, soon to be great. Last week my wife and I took possession of our new house. We have our work cut out for us with the long list of to-do’s (or rather “never-gonna-do’s”) the previous owners left.
First up was refinishing the wood floors. They didn’t look horrible (I kind of dug the unfinished-cabin-in-the-woods look — it went well with the jungle in our backyard), but we figured it would be a lot easier to refinish them now than if we decided to do so after we moved everything into the house. My wife was more gung-ho about this project than I was, so I admit she took the lead and did a tremendous job. I’m thinking about asking her if she’d consider a career change — the List could always use more excellent floor repair professionals!
Next up was cleaning and painting. Luckily, my wife isn’t the only person in my family who’s good at home improvement. My parents graciously volunteered to help us paint the master bedroom and clean the filthy fridge and kitchen. My dad did some great work on the former task, and my mom did an excellent job on the latter, though I’m not sure it will ever be possible to remove the refrigerator’s dark mildew stains — just one of the many traces of evidence showing that the previous occupants were averse to cleanliness.
I also spent a lot of time cleaning. While clearing the garage and basement of dust and detritus, I found bank receipts dating back to the 1950’s, a handwritten note from 1969 mentioning something about “the million dollars” (I hope I find it in our house!), old brown bottles of chemicals with mysterious contents, and lots of moldy wood — both construction-quality pieces and tree limbs.
Speaking of tree limbs, our back yard is filled with both the dead and live kind. Some are weighing down our power line, many are rotting in massive piles, and yet others are being suffocated by poison ivy. I can’t wait to start clearing our jungle! If only I could find my machete…
Seriously, though, I’m getting a kick out of this whole moving/cleaning/clearing process. Though it can be frustrating at times, I’m doing my best to look at this experience from a “glass half full” viewpoint: what seems to be a big mess is, in a way, a clean slate, even if there is a thick veneer of grime obscuring it.
As my apartment-dwelling colleagues 
I want to learn to dance — not shake my booty, but really dance, as in fox trot, cha-cha, even tango.
I’d rather be covered in motor oil or paint or bruises than hire someone to do the work for me. Of course, that doesn’t mean I’ll do it well. My fixes might be farces, but at least they’re my farces.
