A Skeleton House
On warm days, I drive to forty-one after work. Turning past the crooked cattle gate that Bradley’s left ajar, I bump down the long, gravel driveway in my mom’s old Toyota Corolla, and after a couple of “NO TRESPASSING” placards and a diamond-shaped “DEAD END” sign, the house suddenly appears beyond a bend in the road. Even after Bradley cleaned-up the front yard, the house still looks forlorn. Like a lost sock entombed behind a dryer, or a hardened piece of chewing gum stuck to the underside of a classroom desk, this house would’ve surely been cleaned up long ago had it been a little less tucked away. But here it stands steadfast, hidden in its little patch of Maine woods. I adore its odd proportions. The too tall gambrel sticks out of the weedy ground like a comical tower. It’s a campy ode to 1970’s vacationland, a dated brown A-frame complete with pottery studio. I think that most people looking at it would either gag or completely fall in love, if nothing else it invites a strong reaction. Personally, I love its woodsy mid-century charm, it’s awkward height and boxy shape. It’s like a thing that time forgot.
Although the reddish-brown exterior looks as weathered as ever, and yellow-green patches of lichen still cover the crusty roof, the interior has gone through a major transformation. Gone are the nicotine-stained walls that divided the house into dark quarters – drywall, wiring, two-by-fours, and all. So is the musty kitchen along with its acrid, animal smell, cracked linoleum and beat up appliances. Gone are the red, Formica countertops and cottagey pine cupboards etched with scrolls and flowers. Several dingy toilets and bathtubs sit out front waiting to be taken to the dump, each a different shade of 1970’s New England. Next to them are at least twenty fat garbage bags bursting with pink and yellow insulation. What’s left is a wide open, light filled box, an empty vessel waiting to be filled. We found an orange bouncy ball in one of the walls, and regularly send it hurtling around the space like a pinball. A few jagged pieces of drywall remain in the hallway, and a wires still dangle like balloon strings. The floor is littered with rusty staples that escaped the broom’s stiff bristles. But all in all, the interior feels if not fresh, then at least ready, I think. Like a womb pregnant with possibility, or a snake freshly wriggled from its too tight skin – a little bent from the effort, but ready to grow.
Gutted and exposed, forty-one is almost ready for a rebirth. All the destruction – the pulling and prying, burning and bagging, is the first part of this transformation. Much like gardening, we hope that something vibrant and beautiful will bloom here, fed by the rich compost of its forbears. I am reminded that nothing in the world is ever really new – the earth is made from a finite amount of stardust that’s continually in flux, shifting from one animal, vegetable, or mineral to another. From forest to woodlot, from house to fire-pit, destruction and creation are two sides of the same coin.
It might seem funny to say so but writing this makes me feel just as exposed as our skeletal house. On the weekends, we shroud our bodies in protective coverings and flex our muscles against crowbars and power tools. And, on weeknights after work, I sit on my in-laws’ deck, trying to dismantle the layers of this experience. At six o’clock, the angled light illuminates a backyard full of flying insects and floating bits of fluff. Each is haloed in gold against the shadowy backdrop of dense foliage. Undone silver spiderwebs shiver in the evening air, each strung with miniscule pearls of golden pollen. Ten years ago, I would’ve spent this time in my drawing studio. Like the hands of a clock, I would tick away each minute with a new line or brushstroke, turning each moment into a new mark. Finished drawings were weeks or sometimes months made visible, a tangible record of each minute that passed. Through my drawings, I created my own language of strokes, symbols and colors to express everything I could never put into words. Writing, in contrast, is much more concrete. Words have specific meanings and etymologies, each recorded in detail and archived alphabetically. I find it difficult to communicate this way – so unambiguously. Clarity risks a clear response - of rejection, confusion or apathy. But despite my trepidation, writing also gives me a sense of fulfillment that I haven’t felt in some time. It’s satisfying to put my story onto paper, to record the passing moments with marks on a page. And, it’s satisfying to put my mark on the earth with strokes of a hammer and crowbar. These things are evidence of the galactic blip when about a hundred and forty pounds of stardust belonged to little ‘ole me.
More excavation is needed, I know. I’ve just begun to loosen a corner here and there. But I feel encouraged every time I see the glowing light filling forty-one’s hollow interior. We could never move forward with our plans if we weren’t willing tear down a few walls. If destruction is a necessary facet of creation, then maybe it’s good that I’m feeling a bit raw too. There’s only a few vowels and consonants that separate “reveal” from “revelation.” Perhaps sunlight can cleanse and nourish, if I let it reach my roots, too.
