Okay, so is it just me, or have we entered a new era of "My home must be uber-adorable and reflect my style, hopes, dreams, and Pinterest boards, and gee, wouldn't it be great, too, if I had a neat story to tell about each interesting little decor piece I've carefully repurposed and staged, so that each one actually looks haphazardly placed yet simultaneously meaningful?"
I know, I know. Stand down, soldier.
Before more ranting, my confessions. I love The Nester, and her book is as cute as the day is long. I love Jen Hatmaker even more. Really, I would temporarily give up vegetarianism if I could spend an afternoon grilling burgers and swapping fun with her crazy self.
Pinterest? Check. I like to think I was an early adopter.
I am an avid Southern Living reader. And my favorite television shows all involve homes -- their locale, their back yards, their resale worthiness, the memories that whoosh in and out of them with all the impermanence of sudden spring storms.
But all this is to say, I am a little put off by the pressure of the cute home craze. I mean, flowers in riding boots? What?
The other day, I was bingeing on Love It or List It. In my defense, I was recovering from a nasty shoulder injury, and my arm hurt so bad, I couldn't concentrate enough on anything more mentally stimulating. Like reading. Or gum-chewing.
On this particular episode, the husband wanted to keep the farmhouse his family had owned for several generations. His wife was having none of it. So the two hashed out renovating and moving options right there on cable television for all the world to see.
At the climax of the show, Hillary-the-designer (whom the narrator calls Hillary-the-designer every single mention throughout the entire show) delivered the bad news to the owners of the aging farmhouse that the septic tank pump was broken and the pipe from the tank to the drain field was cracked. Ca-ching. Big bucks for zero curb appeal.
The missus had had enough. She stormed off into the night.
The mister looked at Hillary-the-designer, tears welling up in his big blue Canadian eyes, and said, "How can I sell this house? I proposed to her right there." He gestured to an oak tree with branches so old, they formed a canopy that nearly touched the ground.
Well. I nearly fell apart. I could no longer feign interest in new house options. They had to keep the farmhouse. Had to. He proposed to her right there, and that this was important enough for him to blurt out to Hillary-the-designer while standing knee deep in septic muck, manhood be damned, was clear and irrefutable proof.
Our houses. They contain dog whines and the whiff of charred grilled cheese sandwiches and Christmas ornament hooks cacooned in dust-bunnies behind the sofa. Conversations that nearly destroy us and conversations that keep our feet on the path for one more day. The leaky roof. Knowing looks over the damp heads of kids fresh out of the tub.
But a feature wall? I don't know. Maybe I'm getting old, but I love the twin needlepoint rose trellises Matt's grandmother stitched, her cigarette smoke still faint on particularly warm days. Nothing else on that wall but a window, and that suits me just fine.
And the photographs: our girl at the beach, casting net clutched in her sandy hands. Robyn the day she graduated from law school. Benjamin laughing in Paris. Our wedding day. Matt's parents' wedding day. My great-grandmother Clara stiffly standing amidst her family of eleven in a starched white pinafore. The year was 1910.
When we remodeled our home, I got outrageously caught up in the exact right shade of yellow for my kitchen backsplash, and bedroom cabinet hardware that would "reflect the period of our home." I told anyone who would listen that my goal was to restore the house to its 1950s Florida bungalow bones. And I did. In some rooms. Next to our bed, though, we have a standard issue floor fan, in all its Home Depot glory, keeping my hot flashes in check. And that suits me just fine, too.
The truth is, I love my house beyond reason, and I'll get caught up renovating and gardening projects again and again. Like my Hatmaker friend, I'll troop from store to store, magazine clippings in hand, eager to find that perfect doodad or bedspread or picture frame that will pull a whole room together.
And sometimes, the little doodad does exactly that.
But more often, what pulls my rooms together are the people, both real and remembered, that inhabit them. Wisps of cigarette smoke and all.
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