Home at the Holiday

It was an old lady's house.  When we bought it from her, the husband who had built it was dead and she'd been left alone in it for years.  It was by then "too much for her," or so her son said at the time.  It's a big house, meant for more than one certainly, and more than two, come to that, but in it we've been happy.  The original owner moved to an apartment over the grocery store.  We used to see her thereabouts, now and again, but it's been years since now.  We would wave and she'd wave back.

The house was built in 1970 and it looks it, still.  We'd assumed we would change it more than we have, but at some point we ran out of spare money, and steam. The kitchen for instance has settled somewhere between then and now, with at least a new stove and refrigerator, but no backsplash and the counters are still avocado-green. At least the vinyl wallpaper's gone (sunflowers) and the hanging lamps.  Recently, we had the living-room carpeting stretched.  It was wrinkled as a camel's hide.  Looks better, but that's all.  Seems we're okay with that.

We love the house.  It's been good to us: the roof's held up, the space is grand, the structure's sound, and we get the afternoon sun through the big picture-windows.  That last is good, now it's winter.  The house is big, as I've said, so in the winter the house is cold.  Not our big bedroom where the ceiling is low and we run a portable heater, but otherwise it can be nippy and you'll need to wear slippers to cross the kitchen-floor (patterned vinyl -- vinyl was big in 1970.)

Christmas Day was quiet, as it is with us.  My folks sent sweaters and sweatpants and candy.  My sister sent a basket of sweet things, my brother a history book.  I gave the husband a nice watch, as he particularly likes watches, and the headphones he wanted.  He gave me good slippers, some nice vests and a new case for my phone.  it was all good.  As the housekeepers were coming the next day, I did some laundry and straightened up a bit.  He cooked a roast and made gravy, which did not agree with him.  We watched a movie.  I read some poetry, mostly Wordsworth, and read some more of the novel by Scott I'd started finally the day before. We were up late for no very good reason.  By the time we went to bed we were both glad of it.  Christmas was done.

It was as we want it, almost as it's always been with us.  He retired from the Post Office after 35 years.  I still work in retail.  The Holidays, as such have always been hectic then, work.  Come Christmas and I'm tired, frankly.  His mother was Jehovah's Witness so he was raised without.  Most years I decorate a bit still, but not this time.  Instead he lined the entryway with the Christmas cards we got.  It was nice, just that.  Coming home after work and up the stairs there was just enough of Christmas to cheer when I stopped to hang up my coat, or went down with a basket of laundry -- linens and blankets mostly, as the cleaners make up the beds when they come.

The house is quiet as I write.  He is at home, gathering up the rugs to wash, waiting for the maids to come at nine.  They always send two, as it's a big house and we have them in just once a month.  There's always one who's been before and knows where the light-switches are and how we like the pillows on the bed.  It's a luxury, having help in, even as infrequently as this and a reminder to me of my luck in having this house, of having him and he able to afford it even on his pension.

I'm glad of the house, and more of him, my love and his and the home we've made here.  I'm glad of my books, of the quiet, of the grey morning.  I work today, and so better leave soon.  Meanwhile, I'll sit a minute in the quiet, let Christmas go out as it finally came.

I'll just sit a minute in the house.