Caffeinated Politics

On this date in 2019, James and I took ownership of our entire Victorian home on the Madison isthmus. We inherited the first-floor condo in 2007, and, as the account below shows, buying the top two floors was a journey. I am going to let my free-flow writing, done over the years in fits and starts about this event, tell the story.

I tell James frequently that we are rich. He grins knowing what I mean about love and togetherness, the way our days are structured, plenty of books on the shelves, and shared priorities about what matters in life.  But in response to my comment, he at times laughs a bit and says, “No, we are not.”  He again reminds me that a checkbook balance does not lie! He should know, as the entries and updating are for him to handle. And for a mighty good reason.

About 26 years ago I finally discovered that my unique way of seeing numbers displayed in my head and the resulting anxiety created about computing them has a name.  Dyscalculia. And I have a form of it.  When James first looked at my checkbooks from when I was single in 2000, he asked, given the wreckage of numbers within, “Who does your taxes?”

“Good Lord, not me!” I responded.

Oh, how I wish there were a way to have just one more conversation with Robert Nogle, my high school math teacher who had me take elementary algebra… twice.  He was truly kind, as he let me slip by with a passing grade in my senior year, even though I had miserably failed.

He once told me that he felt somewhat responsible for not having been a good enough teacher. I had no way to explain at the time why his class was the only one that totally eluded me, as I had no issues with my other courses, which were made up of letters and the printed word. The high anxiety regarding numbers and their interplay in my brain left me feeling very off-kilter in his classroom. Had I understood the matter at the time, I would have recognized panic attacks. I did not realize there was a term for my situation with numbers until well into my adult life. Today, I do know why numbers are not my friends, and I wish it were possible to let Nogle know it was not his fault as an educator.

Therefore, I am not the one at our home measuring for new French screen doors or evaluating how much paint will be needed for walls that need a brighter hue. But I can say all those projects, and many others, were always filled with laughter as James and I plunged forward with what doubtless was the biggest purchase of our lives.

The top two floors of our Victorian home became available for purchase, and since we had first rights based on the condo bylaws, we expected a smooth transaction. In the end, however, we needed to employ a lawyer to stop illegal attempts by other parties to subvert our plans.  I admire sharp and determined lawyers, and better yet, ones who know the weight of one pithy letter. When asking what we wanted the letter to sound like, I informed the lawyer it needed verve and punch, while James used his Yankee wisdom to instruct that the letter should alert the seller “we are all through being nice”.   Our lawyer wrote a terse missive to the upstairs owner, then long gone from our home, threatening punitive damages if we were not allowed to move swiftly toward a sale.  Once the letter was served, we saw movement faster than a Panzerkampfwagen on the Polish border in 1939. The upstairs neighbor was a genuine Nazi who still preached anti-Jewish tropes as late as 2015. Ayn Rand, she ranted, was a “Russian Jew”.

I had not intended to be reading about the settlers who traveled the Oregon Trail during the closing hours leading up to the signing of our home.  The story about the hearty, adventurous men and women who made the journey, and who were far more fit and suited for such a trip than I can even imagine, seemed timely, however, as they too were following their dreams.  Turning the pages of Polk by Walter Bornenan, I was again reminded of that ever-present human desire for expansion along with the gaining of personal happiness.

The settlers often started out in Conestoga wagons piled high but soon found the need to convert to prairie schooners as the terrain necessitated a more slimmed-down mode of transportation.  If the settlers made twelve miles a day, it was a successful effort. I could relate to the tedious journey of securing one’s home.   

My appreciation for history and old houses began in my childhood, when a portion of the ‘back basement’ in the family home had been built before the Civil War. While it is true that no major historical events took place in my hometown, I came to see history in my teenage years as filled with personal stories, which, when patched together like a quilt, create a grand narrative.  For instance, when viewing the past through the lens of ‘people’s history,’ that 1853 portion of the basement truly began to mean something deeper to me.  My dad’s great-grandparents, the Wood Family, built the house.  Some of the extended family fought in the Civil War, with one dying at the most horrific prison camp, Andersonville.

When the settlers like those from the pages of Polk moved west, they did so for many reasons.  Some sought adventure, or better means of making money, while still others were fleeing legal entanglements.  When James and I decided to buy the rest of this home, it was to have a firm hand in the maintenance and upkeep needed for these old gems, all of which require strong advocates.

I grew up with parents who became homeowners after World War II.  The home they bought was not new; in fact, it was old and needed lots of work.  Over the years, many projects were completed.  But through them all, I never, not once, heard any word spoken about how an improvement or addition would aid in the value of the house.  The value of any improvement lay in the day-to-day pleasures and conveniences it provided for the family.  Nothing more, nothing less. The home was a place to live and relax.  It was a place to ‘be’.

The American Dream has always been about expanding the place where one lives life.  Like the settlers heading west those many decades ago, James and I also wanted a new horizon to look out upon. 

Though we moved into our first-floor condo in 2007 and began shaping the lawn, trees, and flower beds to suit our tastes, it was not until 2017 that we began to turn this whole home completely into our own. We hired a painter to handle the job of high walls and a story-and-a-half ceiling in our entryway.  We brought in our electrician to install floor outlets to both the front and back entrances.  We ordered a thin-and-tall Christmas Tree, perfectly sized and lighted, for the main entrance to showcase the grand wooden staircase. Long-time residents of the neighborhood told us they could not recall when the home last had the warm Victorian Holiday mood so welcoming from the front stoop.

So, it is not hard to understand the feeling of elation when, on July 31, 2019, we finally signed the paperwork for full and complete homeownership. The sale was complete! There is no way to describe our absolute pleasure at that outcome, especially given what we had experienced over the years. Let me provide a classic example.

The first Saturday we lived in our home in ’07, several cars started pulling up alongside the curb, and I noticed an odd assortment of elderly people coming up our walkway.  Each was carrying the same suitcase-sized container.  My initial question was, do octogenarians have sleepovers? They went upstairs with much wheezing and complaints about the many wooden steps, but it was not until they had time to open what they had brought that we discovered another circle existed in Dante’s hell.

They each had their own accordion!  I am not sure whether there is a way to tune those hideous instruments. I only know that it sounded like they tried—all afternoon–over our heads!  So, it goes without saying that we were ready to buy out the owner from the first week we lived in our home. It would be a decade, however, and a strongly worded letter about our legal rights before we could attain that mission.

Throughout the years, however, we learned the value and importance of humor accompanying us at every step.  So, when it came to the series of remodeling and updating projects following the purchase, we knew walking with laughter was the only way to proceed.     

During the series of projects unfolding at our home, I was confronted with the ever-reliance most people have on their cell phones. It says a great deal about our society.  It probably also says something about how James and I live: not needing or willing to bend to align with what most others do.

We had countless people at our home during the purchasing and refurbishing process. From having the home appraised, along with estimates for electricity, plumbing, carpeting, and insulating.  There was the multi-week work by electricians to rewire the house, so to say goodbye to knob and tube dating back to the late 19^th century. Then welcoming plumbers for everything from hot water heaters to new toilets and sinks. Hello to the deliverymen for a new stove, dishwasher, and, yes, do not forget the two new air-conditioning condensers for outdoor placement!  Did I forget to mention saying “howdy” to the guys laying two rooms of carpeting upstairs?

Let’s be honest, back in the country it could be said enough folks were about our home for an old-fashioned barn raising with dinner on the ground.   Through it all, I offered coffee. That is just a Midwestern nicety that is a standard at our home. After a few days of taking orders for cream, sugar, or black, I thought perhaps of getting a license as a barista! Only once did a worker alert me that he did not drink coffee, to which I quickly retorted, with a smile, that he would be viewed with deep suspicion from then on.

So, over the course of those many months and countless interactions with workmen, it can now be stated with certainty what the most outdated convenience in the nation is. The doorbell.

I also know the demise of its use plays havoc with those who live without a phone in hand 24/7.  For example, ponder how it played out one day at 7:27 A.M. We do not have cell phones, other than a flip-phone for long car trips.  The ringer on our landline phone is not always turned on at all hours of the day.  We have four phones set up in the house, so when a call comes in, the front of the receiver lights up, and we say hello. 

To say I have a disdain for the constant ringing of phones would be an understatement.  At the radio station where I worked, we had lines for Upper Door County and Kewaunee County, and one that seemed dedicated to the owner.  God forbid it ring in the studio and need to be answered by the on-air announcer.  (Time to play There’s Trouble In Paradise.)  At the statehouse, it seemed there were more phone lines than any reasonable office required.  Lord knows, if a line is installed, it will ring.

So, that morning I was at my computer, reading some emails, when the phone on the desk lit up.  With what passes for cheerfulness before my first full cup of coffee, I greeted the caller and was told the workers had arrived and that “we are waiting at your front door.” Had I not been at my desk, or if James had made a fast dash to the basement, or had I taken something upstairs–all of which would have taken us away from the living area of our home and away from the phones–we would not have known there was anyone wishing to make an entrance to our home.

Back in 1831, the first crude doorbell was created, and it still seems like a mighty fine idea to me.  It amuses me how most people never have a shy finger for texting but are highly reticent to press a button on the front of a house.  I am at a loss to explain why.  I would even agree to a government-funded study to figure out that mystery.

I had workers call me from just blocks away to say they were coming to our home.  I gently reminded them of my knowledge about how a calendar works and that if they are to show up on a certain day and time, that is when I will expect them. As I told one nice young man who kept alerting me to his almost block-by-block trip to our home, “When I see your blue eyes, I will know you arrived”. In other words, put the phone down!

“But, how do you know I have blue eyes?” That did not seem like the time to also alert him to the fact that he wore boxers.

I have thought back to my parents building our garage when I was a boy.  How they ever had the cement poured, along with the lumber and shingles, delivered without constant phone messages and updates from drivers and workers would clearly baffle anyone now under age 25. 

I sincerely think that if most workers had to resort to actual calendars and adhere to the promised time of arrival and the work to be done, the whole nation would stop working within a day.  The main purpose of a cell phone, I have found on multiple occasions, is to alter the agreed-upon arrival time of workers paid to do a job.

As you have probably discovered by now, James and I enjoy laughing and find smiles and humor at every turn. Finding reasons to laugh is not hard. I randomly ask James, usually late at night, if other couples on our street are laughing as we often do. Not only do I know laughter is part of being healthy, but I also know it is a foundation for a strong marriage and relationship.

At times, I think of people who have had starter marriages.  It always seems like a sad term to use in our society.  But the fact remains there are far too many of them–those first marriages that last five years or less and end without the couple having any children together.  I guess we should be glad no children were created, as that would surely just add to the sadness of the ever-growing statistics.

James and I come from homes where marriage was meant to last.  My parents would have celebrated 60 years together at the time of mom’s passing, and James’ parents at the time of Marion’s passing, 47 years.  We have proved what togetherness looks like, having spent more time together than most couples ever will. Other than when James was in front of a college classroom (about 8 hours a week), our days over the decades have been spent together.  We often comment that the idea of being bored with any aspect of life, or with each other, is something we have never experienced as a couple.

I read an interview in The New York Times with Bob Newhart about what makes marriages last.

Questioner: “You and Ginny have been married for 56 years. Incredible in this town.”

Newhart: “It is and it isn’t. Among comedians it’s not unusual. Buddy Hackett, Jack Benny, George Burns, Alan King, they all had long marriages. That’s why I think laughter is the secret to longevity of relationships. If you can laugh you can get through it.

I agree, laughter is so much a key to life and healthy spousal relationships.  James would add that my headphones are also vital, as they can prevent Dwight Yoakam’s music from filling the house.

James and I each have one matter that neither of us will budge on.  I do not play Yoakam on the stereo, and James will never own or operate a kitchen torch.  Or, as I label it, a flamethrower that should never enter an all-wood structure. He tells me it will enhance his culinary experience in the kitchen. I remind him that our health insurance policy has limits on Valium purchases.

I recall that many years back, James and I got into a late-night laughing jag just after we moved into our home in 2007. We were talking about some event or other and the giggling started.  The laughing grew louder.  The old woman who then lived in the upstairs condo started pounding on the floor to stop any sign of merriment.  Failing that, she then started slamming doors.  Which only made our laughter the richer.

Smiles and laughs take place in this home soon after waking up and continue well into the night.  I often think couples miss so much by not laughing along the path of life together. As young couples prepare for marriage and attend counseling classes, I would suggest that the religious leader of the meetings devote time to ensuring there is laughter every day.  That should not be a new concept or one hard to understand.  But clearly, with the high rate of divorce from starter marriages, it is a lesson needing to be learned.

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The free-flow writing continues in that vein, but I end it there for this post. Thanks for reading.