Great 365 Day Purge - Day Eight


January 8, 2014

Day Eight of "The Great 365 Day Purge of 2014"

Today, as the temperatures claw their way up to the thirties, I let go of trying to keep Grey Cat inside. While Calico Catthe cat who adopted us in Octoberhas been enjoying her indoor respite, curling up on a feather tick and sleeping for hours, forgetting entirely about birds and squirrels, Grey Cat is angry: Kept inside the house against his will, he runs to the door trying to slip out between our legs whenever we take the dogs out for a walk, sitting upon the kitchen table when denied, intently staring at the action outside: The snow that's so cold it squeaks underfoot...the three-foot-long icicles hanging from the gutters...the occasional bird that flits to the suet feeder...the Christmas trees piled curbside...the recycling bins blowing down the street.

Yesterday morning, in a last desperate bid to escape, Grey Cat crawled up the inside of the chimney and sat upon the damper, peering upside down at my daughter, refusing to come down. He emerged, some time later, sooty paws tracking across my hardwood floors and, of course, onto the kitchen table.


Today I open the door and let the cat run.

Today I air out the house and wipe down the kitchen table.

Today I hang up the puzzle that we've spent the past cold and snow-bound week assembling and gluing: a nine hundred eighty-three piece puzzle that would've been a thousand, had not the puppy eaten the seventeen pieces that fell to the floor.

Today I shoo Calico Cat from my daughter's suitcase, parked in the dining room, packed for college.

Today I liberate the zoo that this house has become.

Today I open the door and let the cat run.

Today I also let go of my frustration that my husband isn't handy.

I grew up with parents skilled at using their hands: My father taught his daughters to run electric and plumbing...how to build a fence and bale hay. My mom taught herself how to quilt and can and refinish furniture.

Growing up, I had the expectation that people everywhere learned these valuable skills. But my siblings and I were lucky: Few of our peers learned to plant a garden or muck a stall.

On Christmas Day, my mother was teaching my daughters and me how to do The Hundred, that hellish Pilates exercise designed to increase one's core strength. As we panted and struggled and strained to hold our bodies in position, my husband got down on the rug and joined us, despite the fact that my entire family was present.

My husband won't repair a leaky toilet. He won't touch electric. That's OK. He's willing to laugh at himself.

My husband has spent the past twenty years working full time while I dabbled...teaching part-time here and there, staying at home with our kids, reading...writing...gardening. Too, he's spent the past twenty years paying repairmen to come in and fix the repairs I make on the house: The water line I snapped repairing the kitchen faucet...The ceramic tile I chipped after installing a ceiling plant hanger with the toggle bolt upside down...The sinks I tried to replace in our first home.

My husband isn't handy.

That's OK.

Today I pick up the toolbox and head to my son's bathroom to repair the broken drain.

And sure as that cat will come back inside when the temperatures drop, we'll need a plumber before I'm done.

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Writing in the Margins, Bursting at the Seams: Great 365 Day Purge - Day Eight

Wednesday, January 8, 2014

Great 365 Day Purge - Day Eight


January 8, 2014

Day Eight of "The Great 365 Day Purge of 2014"

Today, as the temperatures claw their way up to the thirties, I let go of trying to keep Grey Cat inside. While Calico Catthe cat who adopted us in Octoberhas been enjoying her indoor respite, curling up on a feather tick and sleeping for hours, forgetting entirely about birds and squirrels, Grey Cat is angry: Kept inside the house against his will, he runs to the door trying to slip out between our legs whenever we take the dogs out for a walk, sitting upon the kitchen table when denied, intently staring at the action outside: The snow that's so cold it squeaks underfoot...the three-foot-long icicles hanging from the gutters...the occasional bird that flits to the suet feeder...the Christmas trees piled curbside...the recycling bins blowing down the street.

Yesterday morning, in a last desperate bid to escape, Grey Cat crawled up the inside of the chimney and sat upon the damper, peering upside down at my daughter, refusing to come down. He emerged, some time later, sooty paws tracking across my hardwood floors and, of course, onto the kitchen table.


Today I open the door and let the cat run.

Today I air out the house and wipe down the kitchen table.

Today I hang up the puzzle that we've spent the past cold and snow-bound week assembling and gluing: a nine hundred eighty-three piece puzzle that would've been a thousand, had not the puppy eaten the seventeen pieces that fell to the floor.

Today I shoo Calico Cat from my daughter's suitcase, parked in the dining room, packed for college.

Today I liberate the zoo that this house has become.

Today I open the door and let the cat run.

Today I also let go of my frustration that my husband isn't handy.

I grew up with parents skilled at using their hands: My father taught his daughters to run electric and plumbing...how to build a fence and bale hay. My mom taught herself how to quilt and can and refinish furniture.

Growing up, I had the expectation that people everywhere learned these valuable skills. But my siblings and I were lucky: Few of our peers learned to plant a garden or muck a stall.

On Christmas Day, my mother was teaching my daughters and me how to do The Hundred, that hellish Pilates exercise designed to increase one's core strength. As we panted and struggled and strained to hold our bodies in position, my husband got down on the rug and joined us, despite the fact that my entire family was present.

My husband won't repair a leaky toilet. He won't touch electric. That's OK. He's willing to laugh at himself.

My husband has spent the past twenty years working full time while I dabbled...teaching part-time here and there, staying at home with our kids, reading...writing...gardening. Too, he's spent the past twenty years paying repairmen to come in and fix the repairs I make on the house: The water line I snapped repairing the kitchen faucet...The ceramic tile I chipped after installing a ceiling plant hanger with the toggle bolt upside down...The sinks I tried to replace in our first home.

My husband isn't handy.

That's OK.

Today I pick up the toolbox and head to my son's bathroom to repair the broken drain.

And sure as that cat will come back inside when the temperatures drop, we'll need a plumber before I'm done.

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