It was a Radish; Now It's a Lemon

I live in a three-bedroom house, built in 1952. In the fifties a family of four or five people, or even more, would have lived here. It was a big house. I still think of it as a big house, because the house where I grew up is even smaller. But with this house, there is no way I can keep up with the Joneses. The Joneses have left me way, way, behind.

The Joneses live in mansions. Our house has a mansion on either side, like, say, a cow between two elephants If either house fell this way, mine would be toast.

My house is a rancher, or as it is called here, a rambler. Neither appellation is close to the truth. We’re certainly not on a ranch, and our house can’t ramble anywhere, but the yard is big enough for it to take a stroll, at least. On a yard as small as mine, a mansion looks like a bowling ball on a luncheon plate.

The mansions all look alike. I believe they are supposed to resemble farmhouses, but they don't look like the real farmhouse, which is two blocks down. (All of my neighborhood used to be a farm.) The real farmhouse is a medium-sized frame house on what, for this neighborhood, is a huge lot, but actually is just enough. A kid could hide-and-seek here; there are places to hide. Not so with these mansions. The yard is too small.

Of the eleven houses on our block, five are huge. It is inevitable: more mansions are coming. When we see the temporary power pole, we know the house is doomed, and with it go the trees.

I called the house on the corner the radish house because it used to be that color: not maroon, not terra cotta, but radish red. Every tree on that lot came down before the monstrosity went up.

Even our "desirable" neighborhood could not sell this house. The realtors tried to find a buyer, but none of them could find anyone with such bad taste.

After a year or so, someone painted it yellow. The radish is now a lemon. Again, it sat empty for months. Who would have guessed that people want a yard with trees?

We say our house is a hovel between two castles, but we're joking. It's more of a cottage: cozy, and just big enough.

I'm Still Here

I was looking at some old pictures of myself – back when I was in my thirties. (I’m not saying how old I am, but the thirties were some time back.) I was gorgeous. I really was. Did I think so? No. I knew I wasn’t ugly, but I never thought of myself as beautiful, and so no one else did either.

I’m beginning to think beauty is a matter of attitude – a matter of confidence. But now that I’ve got the confidence, I don’t have the looks. In fact, I have to work hard to keep from looking like a bag lady. I’ll bet a lot of you feel the same way.

What I’m trying to lead up to is my explanation of why my blog is late today. I had my hair cut and colored. It takes a long time – two and a half hours altogether, once a month. My hair used to be black. Now it’s medium brown. If I didn’t color it, it would be gray all over. I used to have worlds of hair. Now I fluff it around so my scalp isn’t visible.

I’m beginning to hate the whiny sound of this post, so I’ll stop. If you are in the bloom of youth as you read this, go look in the mirror. You look great. You really do. Enjoy it. I wish I had.

I’m not going to end this post on a negative note. Every time I start feeling bad about how I look, I think,

Be glad you are still here.

I almost wasn’t. Two years ago on St. Patrick’s day, I had a stroke. I was driving on the Washington DC beltway at the time, in a stick shift car.

I’m still here. My legs and arms and speech were not affected. I managed to park my car in a no-parking zone, and it didn’t even get towed.

I refuse to dwell on what was or what could have been or what I’ve missed in my life. That way madness lies. I want to enjoy every minute of whatever time I have left. Right now I sit here listening to my grandmother’s clock tick, in a comfortable chair, with dinner almost ready, and my husband coming in the door right now. Life is good.