I am not very handy and I don’t care. Yet when I found myself alone last weekend with crappy weather and a daughter at a friends house, I decided to start a project I honestly thought I could not do. I tore up the carpet in the back bedroom last April because I hate carpeting. It has been untouched for about 9 months. I would walk past it and think ‘I really should hire someone to fix this’ and then I would walk away. I thought about calling my brother Fred because he is used to getting me out of things. But then I didn’t. I thought about calling my old landlord who was a builder. But then I didn’t. I thought about calling the husband of a friend of mine who was so talented in working with wood. But then I didn’t. I thought about going to Baker Lumber in town to the experts and asking their opinion. But then I didn’t. Instead I went to Home Depot and got some awful smelling zip strip to clean up the wood floor. I didn’t think I could do it. But I did. Then I needed to take the carpet strips down from around the room. I didn’t think I could do it. But I did. Then I began tearing up the particle board from the other half of the room. I didn’t think I could do it. But I did.
And as I began pulling up the old particle board, I discovered that underneath it all was the bones of the house. The bones that held this old place together. It was almost as if i was uncovering an old gravesite, where only the bones remain. And it made me feel safe. And I couldn’t help but wonder, what is it about the bones of an old house that make me feel so safe?
They say home is where the heart is. Tonight I say, home is where the bones are.