Impressions

I was very lucky in one feature of the old wreck of a house I bought back in ought-13. It has enormous, good-quality, double-pane windows, all installed within the last five or six years (PUD-subsidized specials, I’m sure; I’ve often had reason to believe those good windows are the only thing holding the entire structure together). And it has this one room whose sole purpose seems to be to enjoy those windows to the max.

It’s actually a dining room. It opens onto the kitchen and it had pantry shelves when I bought the place. But to me, it is a totally amazing sunroom. In this part of the country, having a sun room is a remarkable thing. We love sun! ‘Cause it’s so rare. Like diamonds, rubies, and honest politicians. So even if the temperature inside occasionally gets up to 90+ in the summer, I’m gloriously cheered because — Oh, look, for a change it’s TOO HOT!!! Isn’t that JUST AWESOME???

I was unlucky with this room in another way.

It’s a flat-roofed add-on. When the house sat foreclosed and empty for a year this spot took the worst damage. In this damp climate, you can’t leave a house empty that long without mold and rot setting in. Worse for this place, the roof had been leaking in multiple locations for years and when he knew he was losing the house “Crazy Dick,” as the former owner was known to the neighbors, pulled all his tarps off.

By the time I bought the house, the only sensible course of action for a person on a budget would have been to demolish this room, restore the exterior wall on that side of the kitchen, and say goodbye to both the potential — and all the potential trouble — of that space. The ceiling had collapsed, the floor was suspiciously spongy, and there was not only mold and rot everywhere, but there was actually moss growing. Inside. (Note all that green on the lower walls and the floor.)

BUT. I wanted this little room!

So both because it was most urgent and because I knew it would be my favorite spot once I eventually got all those roof issues taken care of (thank you, oh generously saintly donors), I quickly got this room at least partly banged into shape. Partly. The first winter it had no drywall or insulation (no point; the walls were too rotted to save and would soon be replaced). Bugs came in through the crannies and when the wind got to blowing enthusiastically, it would rain inside as well as out. A guy I’d hired for emergency roof repair screwed up and left this room not only still leaking when conditions got extreme but with a hole between the roof and the wall big enough for chipmunks to get in. But I loooooved my sunroom and here I sat, even as the rain ran down the inside of those big windows.

Been working on it slowly for close to two years now.

Just this week I finished the walls and ceiling completely (a combined effort, with Contractor Mike and his minions doing the heavy lifting — e.g. wall replacement — and me doing drywall, trim, and other finishing work). There are still a few more bits to go including flooring, which may be years away. But I’ve got this now to where I can sit in it in comfort, without looking around and thinking only, “OMG, what a catastrophe! What do I need to do next?”

But all that is a digression.

My main point is that I sit here. A LOT. I sit here with my computer on my lap, researching, writing, and emailing. I sit here in the evenings with a bloody Mary or a glass of wine. I sit here and close my eyes and meditate. I sit here and view my little pocket view across the street.

And the only problem with that is that one of the giant windows faces (through a lovely garden and off a ways) a neighbor’s house. And in the house is a young family with three little boys, a father who goes off to the mill early every morning and volunteers with the fire department, and a mother who works part-time as an RN, but is usually at home.

And all five of them see me sitting in this window. And sitting in this window. And sitting in this window. And sometimes sitting drinking in this window. (ONE drink an evening and sometimes the Mary is a virgin. But they don’t know that.)

And they don’t know that I’m a writer. That would be foreign to them, anyway. They just think that I’m this older lady who, when she isn’t out either walking the dogs or hammering, sawing, painting, or demolishing something, is sitting in that window. Sometimes drinking.

I laugh at the impression they must have of me. Some drunk with no life, having nothing to do with herself all day.

Yeah, I know I’m not supposed to care what near-strangers think of me. But I do. They’re neighbors. I care.

They’re very nice people. But too reserved to ever to really get to know. The young woman goes to all the neighborhood parties (which are frequent). But she keeps very quiet. I can’t find an opening — or a non-ridiculous way — to say, “You know, I’m really not some aging souse without a life. Really, I’m actually doing something when you see me. Cool things, sometimes.”

If she hadn’t thought goofy things about me before, she’d certainly think them if I cornered her and made that the opening line of party conversation. 🙂

Guess I’ll just enjoy my bloody Mary and not worry about what anybody thinks.