Secrets of the Fireplace.
I was cleaning the fireplace a few days ago. Not much to do really. The inside has not been used in almost two decades. The outside screen just needed some polishing.
Neither T nor I really understand how to take care of a fireplace. We did have it inspected before we moved into our home nearly two decades ago. It passed. We've never lit it.
We have discussed turning it into a gas fireplace. This would be much easier than having to chop firewood for it. As with most of our household ideas, this stays in the lay-in-bed-and-talk-about-it stages.
But, today, as I polished the front screen of it, it occurred to me that this fireplace has been witness to the best and worst parts of our life together.
That fight that seemed to be never ending. I can't even remember what it was about now. I just remember that, at one point, I was so fucking ready to leave her. The fight went on for hours and when it was determined that neither one of us was going to give an inch, T stalked out the door and got in her car and didn't return until after midnight. I had gone to bed by then and lay awake listening to her shower and go into the guest bedroom to sleep. By the next morning, cooler heads prevailed and while we weren't yet on speaking terms, we were on our way there.
All those Husker games that we watched, sitting in our chairs, pizza on paper plates in our laps. The jumping up to scream, "Touchdown!" or "Is that fucking ref blind?"
All those shows. Game of Thrones. The Last Kingdom. Outlander. Poldark. Shameless. Godless. Ozark. The Walking Dead. And on and on. Sitting on the sofa, wrapped up in a blanket together.
The day that I sat with her head in my lap, crying. When I told her that, yes, it was cancer. The last day of chemo, when we celebrated by splitting a vanilla malt, one of the few things that I could keep down. The day a year later when I told her that the cancer was back. In my blood. As leukemia. That first night home from nearly a month in the hospital, laying in T's arms, eyes closed. So glad that I was away from that hospital smell. The next eight months when I barely got up from the sofa, wrapped in a blanket. The words between us that will forever be just for us. The promise that I would come back and bring her that song if I died, so she would know that I made it to the other side. The endless bowls of orange jello.
The goodbye party when Lucy left for college. The Christmas parties when she came home. Sitting on the sofa with Sarah, Sprawling on the floor with Conrad and Kim, the tarot cards telling us a story. The debates in the chairs in front of the fireplace about whether to get a puppy or not. Maybe a cat?
So much of our lives have played out in front of that fireplace. And what of the people before us? The people who built this house? Madge and Mike. The Chiodo's. They co-owned a steakhouse with Mike's family. He did the accounts. She worked as a greeter. We learned more about them from the neighbors after we moved in. They loved to throw parties in the basement with the red and black shag carpet. Mike was the one who planted the beautiful back yard garden that we inherited. Bachelor's Buttons. Bleeding Hearts. Rose bushes. Peonies. Calla Lillies. Lilys of the Valley. Buttercups. Lilac bushes. All those old fashioned flowers. Mike died of pancreatic cancer and Madge went a little nuts. She died a few years later of pneumonia, but not before she became a neighborhood fixture. A woman who answered the door when girl scouts came selling cookies, wearing a see through teddy. A woman who decorated the master bathroom in the ugliest foam green color possible. The neighbors said that after her Mike died, she just sort of lost it. Became that crazy lady who smoked constantly while trailing a ventilator for her weak lungs. The neighbors were certain that she would blow up the house. She also started collecting cats and had four of them at her death. But, her worst sin was that she didn't keep Mike's garden up, according to the neighbors.
That back yard was a showplace and then it was just an overgrown mess. We were so glad when you and T brought it back to life.
We didn't share this fact with the neighbors, but Madge stayed in the house for nearly ten years after we moved in, She appeared, standing behind us in mirrors. Often, she would appear to show us a house problem. When our shower was leaking into the crawl space, it was Madge who alerted us to the fact. One day as T did laundtry, she appeared to her, standing under the crawl space door...pointing to the door and looking at T as if she were as dumb as a doorknob. T went into the crawl space and found the leak.
Madge liked her whiskey. We found bottles hidden in strange places. The top of the cabinet in the dining room. The top of another cabinet in the kitchen. Jim Beam. Jameson in the back of the cupboard in the bathroom, A half filled bottle of Maker's Mark on top of some papers showing secret savings account papers tucked in the floorboards of the office. My favorite: a bottle of Tullamore Dew sitting in the back of our never used fireplace.
We have used the whiskey over the past decades to pour drams of it into glasses to tuck into a deep fissure in the Hawthorne tree in the front yard. It is our witch tree and on the eve of a full moon, the fae get a good drink. I think Madge would have approved.
Because she and Mike probably had their own good life times in front of that fireplace. They used it. We didn't. The neighbors say that, while they had no children, they seemed pretty enamored with each other.
"Mike was always bringing her bouquets from his garden," a neighbor told us.
I imagine that the night he told her about his pancreatic cancer diagnosis must have been quite a talk. It was probably in front of that fireplace.
And after that, the fireplace had to witness her slowly going mad with missing her love. Slowly drinking herself to a place far away.
That fireplace has witnessed two great love stories.
So, as I sprayed window cleaner on its screen, I was careful and did a good job.
"Thanks for being here," I whispered to the fireplace.
Maybe it is time that we learn to use it.
Neither T nor I really understand how to take care of a fireplace. We did have it inspected before we moved into our home nearly two decades ago. It passed. We've never lit it.
We have discussed turning it into a gas fireplace. This would be much easier than having to chop firewood for it. As with most of our household ideas, this stays in the lay-in-bed-and-talk-about-it stages.
But, today, as I polished the front screen of it, it occurred to me that this fireplace has been witness to the best and worst parts of our life together.
That fight that seemed to be never ending. I can't even remember what it was about now. I just remember that, at one point, I was so fucking ready to leave her. The fight went on for hours and when it was determined that neither one of us was going to give an inch, T stalked out the door and got in her car and didn't return until after midnight. I had gone to bed by then and lay awake listening to her shower and go into the guest bedroom to sleep. By the next morning, cooler heads prevailed and while we weren't yet on speaking terms, we were on our way there.
All those Husker games that we watched, sitting in our chairs, pizza on paper plates in our laps. The jumping up to scream, "Touchdown!" or "Is that fucking ref blind?"
All those shows. Game of Thrones. The Last Kingdom. Outlander. Poldark. Shameless. Godless. Ozark. The Walking Dead. And on and on. Sitting on the sofa, wrapped up in a blanket together.
The day that I sat with her head in my lap, crying. When I told her that, yes, it was cancer. The last day of chemo, when we celebrated by splitting a vanilla malt, one of the few things that I could keep down. The day a year later when I told her that the cancer was back. In my blood. As leukemia. That first night home from nearly a month in the hospital, laying in T's arms, eyes closed. So glad that I was away from that hospital smell. The next eight months when I barely got up from the sofa, wrapped in a blanket. The words between us that will forever be just for us. The promise that I would come back and bring her that song if I died, so she would know that I made it to the other side. The endless bowls of orange jello.
The goodbye party when Lucy left for college. The Christmas parties when she came home. Sitting on the sofa with Sarah, Sprawling on the floor with Conrad and Kim, the tarot cards telling us a story. The debates in the chairs in front of the fireplace about whether to get a puppy or not. Maybe a cat?
So much of our lives have played out in front of that fireplace. And what of the people before us? The people who built this house? Madge and Mike. The Chiodo's. They co-owned a steakhouse with Mike's family. He did the accounts. She worked as a greeter. We learned more about them from the neighbors after we moved in. They loved to throw parties in the basement with the red and black shag carpet. Mike was the one who planted the beautiful back yard garden that we inherited. Bachelor's Buttons. Bleeding Hearts. Rose bushes. Peonies. Calla Lillies. Lilys of the Valley. Buttercups. Lilac bushes. All those old fashioned flowers. Mike died of pancreatic cancer and Madge went a little nuts. She died a few years later of pneumonia, but not before she became a neighborhood fixture. A woman who answered the door when girl scouts came selling cookies, wearing a see through teddy. A woman who decorated the master bathroom in the ugliest foam green color possible. The neighbors said that after her Mike died, she just sort of lost it. Became that crazy lady who smoked constantly while trailing a ventilator for her weak lungs. The neighbors were certain that she would blow up the house. She also started collecting cats and had four of them at her death. But, her worst sin was that she didn't keep Mike's garden up, according to the neighbors.
That back yard was a showplace and then it was just an overgrown mess. We were so glad when you and T brought it back to life.
We didn't share this fact with the neighbors, but Madge stayed in the house for nearly ten years after we moved in, She appeared, standing behind us in mirrors. Often, she would appear to show us a house problem. When our shower was leaking into the crawl space, it was Madge who alerted us to the fact. One day as T did laundtry, she appeared to her, standing under the crawl space door...pointing to the door and looking at T as if she were as dumb as a doorknob. T went into the crawl space and found the leak.
Madge liked her whiskey. We found bottles hidden in strange places. The top of the cabinet in the dining room. The top of another cabinet in the kitchen. Jim Beam. Jameson in the back of the cupboard in the bathroom, A half filled bottle of Maker's Mark on top of some papers showing secret savings account papers tucked in the floorboards of the office. My favorite: a bottle of Tullamore Dew sitting in the back of our never used fireplace.
We have used the whiskey over the past decades to pour drams of it into glasses to tuck into a deep fissure in the Hawthorne tree in the front yard. It is our witch tree and on the eve of a full moon, the fae get a good drink. I think Madge would have approved.
Because she and Mike probably had their own good life times in front of that fireplace. They used it. We didn't. The neighbors say that, while they had no children, they seemed pretty enamored with each other.
"Mike was always bringing her bouquets from his garden," a neighbor told us.
I imagine that the night he told her about his pancreatic cancer diagnosis must have been quite a talk. It was probably in front of that fireplace.
And after that, the fireplace had to witness her slowly going mad with missing her love. Slowly drinking herself to a place far away.
That fireplace has witnessed two great love stories.
So, as I sprayed window cleaner on its screen, I was careful and did a good job.
"Thanks for being here," I whispered to the fireplace.
Maybe it is time that we learn to use it.
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