Old house, old soul. . . . so very grateful . . .

I've been in this old house for nearly five months now, and it'll likely be another good month or so, till I find a renter to take my place and completely move back to Wrenwood. . . it has been a necessary move, one that truly, was of self-preservation, in so many layers, and I don't regret it, for a minute. . .

I am grateful, so grateful that five months ago, my landlord—in spite of literally dumping my story on him and his wife—still agreed to rent to me. Who in their right mind would—after hearing the tear-soaked story of a recently widowed nutcase whose husband fought and died after a nightmare battle with cancer, now unemployed and on the verge (already deep in the throes?) of a breakdown, with two mutts in tow—still rent to said nutcase? Despite my heavy load, he and his wife took mercy on me and my two crazy mutts, when I'm sure most landlords would have slammed the door in our faces . . . for my landlords, on this leg of my journey, I am eternally grateful. . .

Almost as soon as I moved into this house, I knew I wouldn't stay. I didn't have a strong, conscious feeling of this back in July—wasn't conscious of much of anything at that time. In fact, I signed a two year lease, I was that serious about fleeing the shredded remains of my old life. . . in the midst of blinding grief, all I knew was I needed to be anywhere but in our house in the country, away from the immense, drowning sadness. Looking back, though, I can guess that perhaps a vague, "this is only temporary" feeling existed, a barely perceptible pinprick of a thought in the back of my mind, that has grown as the weeks and months passed. This old house didn't feel like home from day one, still doesn't feel like home. Even I was shocked at my visceral recoiling upon moving in—I had fallen in love with the photos online and even more so when I toured it, imagining Bob's photography on the walls, my belongings filling each room . . . imagining and doing are two very different experiences. As in, reading about hospice and imagining the stages of death, and actually watching my beautiful husband die. . .

But this old house has felt like a respite, a resting place on this journey, where for at least a short while, I've had time to catch my breath, breathe a little deeper . . . and perhaps, for a while, pretend that the recent events of my life didn't happen, that I didn't just spend the past year and a half witness to a living nightmare, that I didn't just give everything I never knew I was capable of, as my husband's full-time caregiver, that he didn't die an unspeakable death . . . or maybe, it's knowing that those things did happen (how does one ever forget?), but feeling like they were the events of someone else's life, not mine . . . yet, during this time away, within four walls that aren't my own, I have started my healing journey. Have been allowed time and distance to process all that happened to Bob, to us, to me, to everyone connected to him, at a safe distance, without being physically immersed in the immediate reminders . . .for this old house, for this time, I am so very grateful.

This house was built in 1858, the year Minnesota became a state. With thick walls of limestone, tall, deep-set windows paned in wavy, bubbled glass, fun-house-crooked floors, stately chimneys rising from the four corners of the roof and an inviting front porch, it is one of the oldest standing homes in St. Paul—may be the oldest— and is listed on the National Register of Historic Places. This past summer, historic bus tours would occasionally stop in front of this house, to allow riders to lean out and snap pictures of the historic structure. My mom and I are planning a trip to the History Center on Thursday, to dig up some info on this house and the neighborhood. . .

But, make no mistake. It is old. Having been a rental for at least the past 20 years (likely longer), it shows definite signs of wear, from the passage of time, from endless inhabitants who have come and gone, from landlords who have done the basics to keep the house "up to code," but little more. The windows are ill-fitting and drafty (which I've shrink-wrapped in plastic for winter; they now crinkle and crackle, as though alive with the breath of the wind), the floors uneven and creaky, I've patched and painted over several areas on the walls where the plaster was chipped or gouged, filled cracks and gaps in the old double-doors with wood putty and weather stripping—another futile attempt to keep winter outside (have yet I mentioned how ecstatic I am with this unseasonably warm/dry winter??!!!). . . dishwasher is unreliable, the ancient staircase precariously steep, its fragile railing more embellishment than function (the basement stairway even more precarious—read: rickety—and steep, if possible). But the kitchen does have a fabulously functioning gas stove! Bonus!

The giant claw-foot tub drips, the water pressure is just beyond a trickle . . . the basement is dank and dungeon-like, spider webs threaded along the joists like delicate streamers (there's no avoiding the basement, it's where the washer and dryer are), more than once, I've caught a glimpse of a mouse scurry across the floor. And there is no garage, but plenty of off-street parking. Maybe not the best place to retreat to, in hindsight. . . or, perhaps the best. In spite of the physical flaws, this house has heart. And soul. I truly, in the eye of crazy, felt its old soul open up and gently fold me in as I tumbled through the door in August, wild-eyed and wild-minded, dragging along a third of my belongings (another third I had given away, the other third is still out at Wrenwood, left for staging when I was showing it). . .

I cried as I hung Bob's canvases on the exposed brick walls, cried as I placed pictures of him on my desk in the tiny "bedroom" I have been using as an office, cried while hanging a quilt Penny had made on my bedroom wall that used to hang in the stairway of Wrenwood, cried more as I tucked wooden end tables and plant stands that Jim has crafted, into various corners of the house. The tiny closets are overflowing not just with clothes and shoes, but with things that belonged to Bob and me in our past life—guitar amps, books, stuff—basement is stacked with Rubbermaid tubs of Christmas decorations, outdoor gear, tools, past years' business and personal papers . . . even with a fraction of my belongings, I packed the space tightly, wrapping myself in reminders of a former life inside foreign surroundings that seemed so far away, far beyond the horizon of illness and death . . . but, for all that work, all the effort, it still doesn't feel like home, and I still cry, nonstop. . . and slowly, started to realize that I could run as far and as hard as I might, but I will never escape.

Almost from the start, I cursed this old house and all its flaws, regretted the move, almost immediately. But this old house knows it's not personal. It knows I am striking out at the circumstances that led me here, not at the house itself . . . it's an old house, but it is strong, in structure and in spirit. It hasn't stood for over 150 years by being a weakling. It's funny to speak of a house as having strength, or spirit or a soul, but anyone who enters this house feels it, the moment they steps inside . . . my mom says this house has a good soul. Friends and family who have visited say, "Jen, this house is so you. . . it fits you . . ." Even when I shrug my shoulders and answer flippantly, "It's just a roof and four walls . . ." I feel like a rebellious teenager, blindly lashing out with hurtful words that I don't really mean, horribly misdirected . . .

I often wonder how many heartaches this old house has born witness to . . . how many loves, births, lives, deaths have played out within these walls. How many tears have dropped on these wooden floors, whose peals of laughter filled the rooms, who loved in the bedrooms, hated in the foyer, cooked in the kitchen, longed for someone or something at a window, did whatever in the basement . . .when my landlord came to do the walk-through of the house the day I moved in, he must have sensed my unsettled heart, my on-the-verge mind, the fear in my eyes. "This house has good karma," this burly, man's man told me. A funny, uncharacteristic thing for him to say, but I know he meant it, and the words have stuck with me. He should know. This old house is well-seasoned to these kind of things, love, life, birth, death, happiness, tragedy. Endless cycles. I can feel it all. For this house, I am eternally grateful.

The first month or so here is a smear of memories, not much is clear, like looking through a foggy window, an ancient mirror, flecked with flashes of partial images. . . my niece, Amelia, spent many nights here with me, before she had to head back to school after Labor Day. We took walks with the dogs, discovered numerous parks of the neighborhood, watched many movies, snuggled in my bed together, I know this much, don't remember details . . . my mom has probably logged as many days with me here as she has at her own apartment in St. Peter, sharing many bottles of wine, rivers of tears . . . I started watching my adorable nephew, Otto, two days a week in September, when Jill started teaching again . . . for Amelia and Otto, and for my mom, for my whole family, I am endlessly blessed. . .

A maybe a month or so into my self-imposed exile, my dear ol' doggie, Gaia (she turned 14 in December!), developed an inner ear infection. She slept outside one night this fall, a particularly cool evening, the next morning, could not stand up; she tried so hard, but as soon as she got upright, she'd take a few staggering steps and almost immediately fall down . . . a call to my awesome vet (House Paws Mobile vet—the best invention since, umm . . . well, since I don't know what, just a great invention, this mobile vet concept) and a thorough checkup later, she surmised the inner ear issue. Nothing we could do about it, she said, but to watch it. They usually dissipate in a few days, but if things got worse or changed, I was to call her right away.

I felt responsible, that maybe letting Gaia sleep outside had somehow caused the infection (though she's slept outside countless times in her long doggy life). I tried to get her to sleep inside. But, I was still in the process of bringing the last of my belongings to this old house and didn't have all my area rugs in place. In Gaia's world, with her old, arthritic legs and now this vertigo thing going on, I may as well have been living in a skating rink. Poor old girl couldn't stay upright to save her life—she has little strength in her hind legs to keep them underneath her on slippery surfaces, and when she went down, I had to physically lift her upright again, as she couldn't get a grip on the old, worn hardwoods. After a few times of that, she stumbled for the back door, and has been outside since. The inner ear thing cleared up in a few days, but it emotionally scarred her, and I believe she still associates the house with falling, a lot, and hard, and will not come in on her own.

Gaia seems very content outside, keeping post in the backyard, and surprisingly, her energy level also seems to have perked up. She almost demands two walks a day, going at her own leisurely pace. I'd guess we walk almost a mile each time, sometimes even a bit farther, taking our time to check her "pee mail" along the way (one of Bob's old jokes). . . Bob's dad made a three-sided "lean-to" house for her, to protect her from the harsher elements. She took to it, immediately.

Every day, several times, I walk the dogs, one at a time. I tried walking them together one day, when I first moved in, and was nearly met with disaster. This neighborhood is teeming with dogs and their people, and trying to walk two dogs who walk at very different paces, with one who adores other dogs, the other who abhors other dogs, is an exercise in torture for everyone involved . . . Rocco gets the long walks, we take off and make our way up to Summit Avenue, sometimes taking straight paths, sometimes zig-zagging between the blocks, jutting up a few, then over a few, then down a few. . . as many times as I've meandered the streets of my new-old neighborhood, I almost always find a house that I haven't yet seen; or a house that I have seen, but maybe didn't notice the stunning stained glass or the ornate detail of Victorian trim, or a lush garden, or an impressive carriage house tucked behind a mansion . . .I meander with Gaia. We might walk a good mile or so one morning and then just a few short blocks at night one day, and then no walk at all another—I go by her cues . . . both my dogs have become "famous" in the 'hood; people recognize them, stop me on the street, ask about them, or in Gaia's case, might be downright frightened . . . great conversation starters, my pups are, among endless other blessings . . .

It has been a wonderful neighborhood to reacquaint with friends. Many restaurants and watering holes and lovely boutiques are within walking distance to this old house. It's a quick drive to Minneapolis, to downtown St. Paul, out to the western suburbs, even back out to Wrenwood. . .I have had the opportunity to meet many of my neighbors, most of whom have lived in this are since the "Dollar House" auctions of the '70s and '80s, when most of the beautiful old homes of this area had been abandoned and in various states of disrepair and were sold off in an auction for a buck a piece. My landlord was one of those bidders. . . the center of the universe, at least of St. Paul, this old house is.

But it is not my home. This is my home. Wrenwood. It maybe not forever, but for now, it is. And, I can't wait to be back home.