Chapter 18 - Where We Unpacked
The first wall rose on a windy morning in April. Owen had taken the day off. I brought coffee in a thermos and stood beyond the safety line while the framing crew lifted the sections into place.
The house looked tiny as a foundation and enormous as a skeleton. I found that reassuring. It was real enough to surprise me.
Construction took the rest of the year. A wet week delayed exterior work. A shipment of windows arrived with one wrong size. Our contractor issued a change order for an unforeseen rock ledge near the driveway, and we used part of the contingency we'd fought to protect. Each problem had an explanation, a price, and someone responsible for the next step. After the design dispute, ordinary construction difficulties almost felt like a luxury.
Celia drove past occasionally. Once, she stopped to ask whether the new drainage swale was complete before heavy rain. Owen showed her the contractor's schedule and the inspection notes we had. She nodded, thanked him, and left. Neither of them pretended they were friends.
At the fall annual meeting, the board began reviewing a proposal for clearer preliminary design guidance. Evan suggested that applicants receive a written list of concerns early in the process and a consistent checklist of submissions. The members would have to discuss and adopt any changes through the proper procedure. Owen and I offered our records as examples, but we did not demand control of the result.
Then, on a clear Saturday in November, we carried the last boxes from the rented apartment into our new home.
There was no custom island in the kitchen. There was a sturdy table, an old kettle, and two chairs Ruth had helped Owen refinish. The workshop bench stood near the back door. From the upstairs window, the maples framed a view of the road and the farmhouse across it.
I placed my mother's card on the kitchen counter: HOME IS WHERE YOU FINALLY UNPACK.
Owen walked in carrying a cardboard box that said BOOKS—MARA in black marker. He put it down beside the table and looked around as though he expected someone to tell us we'd made a mistake.
“Still think we should have walked away?” I asked.
“Sometimes,” he said. “When I see the credit card bill.”
I smiled. “Me too.”
He took out a chipped blue mug we'd used in the rental since our first night there. “We kept this one?”
“It made it through every move.”
“Then it gets the first coffee.”
Ruth came by before sunset with apple bread. She stayed only long enough to admire the kitchen window and tell us the chimney looked better than she'd expected. We watched her walk back across the road, careful over the gravel.
Later, I stood on the porch. From the bend, our roof would always be visible in winter. I could see why that bothered some neighbors. I could also hear Owen inside, opening a box and asking where the spoons belonged.
May you like
The land hadn't needed to be empty to be loved.
I went back in, took the spoons out of the box, and put them in our drawer.
