The House Of The Home

The first home my husband and I purchased together was a small, 1950’s post war starter home just outside of Coral Gables, Florida. We purchased it from the family of the original owners who had lived out their lives together--45 years of marriage--in the home. The house was in pristine condition, inside and out, lovingly maintained but never updated. I had hoped to raise my three children: Peter, David and Alexondra there, then grow old with my husband as the previous owners had. We even had an architect draw up plans for additional rooms and some much needed remodeling of the heart of any home, the kitchen. The draft outlined the future installation of all the latest luxuries in appliances; like diamonds and pearls, that the old gal was aching to don.

The small and simple raised white house with light blue trim sat on a quarter acre, surrounded by large, old, rooty trees that clearly had been planted as saplings, however, now crowded the home, hiding her from site of the curb. A poinciana tree had been planted too close to the ornate metal mailbox stand, consequently, now weaved around it, becoming it’s living pedestal. Others--sea grape and avocado trees--grew lush providing the house with much needed shade. A blessing those first two months before the central a/c was installed. That’s the thing about her, for every antiquated trapping, she provided a simple, cost effective, solution.

I carried two gallons of paint in each hand making sure not to knock anything over as I passed the living room and into the tight corridor that lead to the three bedrooms of the house. Off to my left, I see my husband laid on his back, wrench in hand, working on the pipes in the kitchen cabinet underneath the sink. “Is it hard to install? Why don’t you call the plumber, just in case?” Meaning it as a request and not so much as a question. “I’ve got it! I saw how to do this on HGTV. I’ve got it, Cynthia. Relax.” There was a tone in his voice. We were on Week Eight of a planned three week remodeling project, and the strain of living with boxes strone all about the house, semi-working plumbing and endless hours of painting still to do, was getting to us. “Whatever you say, babe.”

The first room to the right was small, but had a picture window and it always filled with natural light no matter what time of day. This was my baby girl’s room and it would end up looking exactly the way I had always dreamed of. The paint in my hands had cost me multiple trips and interminable amount of hours at The Home Depot going through swatches until I had finally selected the perfect combination: marigold yellow for the walls; bone white for the wainscoting and trim. As I looked around the room, I imagined the finished product and was excited to start. I hadn’t done any of the painting alone before, but how hard could it be? I just have to pop the top off this can here... “It doesn’t have a pull tab or anything!” Hadn’t there been one when my husband had opened the previous cans? I looked at the other can. “They gave me the wrong kind, those complete idiots!” The sound of my husband's laughter and footfalls coming toward the room to help me, was like adding gasoline to a fire. “Can you believe they gave me cans with no tabs? I mean, how is that even possible? I’m calling the store manager and giving him an earful. What a complete waste of time!” The look of amusement on his face as he entered the doorway told me I was the fool here. “Babe, you need a paint key to open it or a screwdriver to wedge it off. Here, let me get that.” I was mortified. All the worked up fight in me simply deflated and embarrassment weighed me down. That’s when he reached out and pulled me close with coaxing amusement, “They really should have a pull tab. We will patent that, make a fortune, and get out of this old box. You are going to live in an enormous mansion in the Gables, and the kids will have their own wing where they can make tons of noise, while we snuggle on the

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