Because intention makes all the difference.

Winter 1998, Grand Rapids, Michigan We rent an old, gray two-story at 242 Trowbridge. It looks like a formidable tower of a home because the Michigan basement walks out in the middle of a deep hill. The house, at one time, had been a two unit now rennovated into a single family home. It still smells of fresh paint and carpet. The lay out doesn’t flow. Not a room in the house is level. To go to the bathroom, you must walk up hill. We call that character. It is on one of the last cobble stone streets in Grand Rapids. I’m not talking bricks here either, but rather bumpy, round, big rocks, patched together. The city can’t plow our street because the blades dislodge the cobble. Instead, the drivers raise the blade about five inches and roll down the hill, taking only the top clump of snow. They dump salt in their wake, which results in a slushy mess. Residents have to time it just right or slide past their driveways. We’re the envy of the street parkers, who have to alternate which side of the street they park on every other day, because we are fortunate enough to have an entire lot on the east side of the house large enough to park up to eight cars. The hill is steep enough that everyone risks sliding into traffic when they reach the bottom, at Lafayette. This house is our band house. The guys practice in the basement with walls lined with matresses to mute the sound. Our lead guitar player pays a third of the bills. The rest of them come and go, most mooching a night when it suits. For that purpose, we have two couches and a king size mattress in the front room. They are expected to help with household chores if they stay. After one night someone used every towel in the house, laundry became included on that list. Oddly enough, vistors stayed less frequently. - Even though it’s hard on our limited funds, I splurge on big meal dinners, like chili or tacos, so the guys can get their fill as they trickle in before practice begins. Our daughters, ages 1 & 3, greet each musician as they come in the door, with sweet hellos and smiles. Each is like an extended member of our family - like uncles or brothers. They toussle the girls hair, make their way into our kitchen and then go down to the dark hole of a basement for another evening of creativity and noise.  When the music begins, the girls get out their play clothes and dance about. Well, the youngest one tends to toddle along after her sister, who is whimsically twirling to the beat. After a while, the girls begin to tire and the baby crawls over to the vent and listens. She rocks back and forth on her hands and knees until she curls up and falls asleep. It’s the sweetest thing, seeing the music lull her. I watch her fade deep into dreams I wait to carefully pick her up and usher her sister up the winding staircase for bed. The music barely reaches the top floor, faint chords and melodies fade away.  We’re a young family on one income, as I stay home with the little ones, so our home is a mish mash of collected items. Nothing ever matches. The couch is old and the padding is wearing through. The tv center is particle board. There are even some hand built items. Most, though, I’ve found at discount stores or mission centers. I always try to find the most practical items.  One such treasure is a two-piece shelving unit for the dreary kitchen, because we lack storage. The counters span one wall, which even includes the sink and refrigerator which is tightly fit too close to the basement door. By the stove, a half table holds the microwave and toaster. I need an area to store larger grocery items like cereal, sugar and flour canisters and more. The shelf was in plain,unfinished wood, which makes the kitchen look even more like a construction site.  Decidedly, I desire to brighten the area up, so my mom sends a gift card for Pier One to purchase a festive table cloth made of reds, blues, and greens. To coordinate, I purchase a can of red spray paint for the wood shelf.  It is late afternoon and the guys are watching Aladdin in the living room with the girls. I begin the work on my new decor. I know a masterpiece awaits! It is winter out, definitely not practical for painting outside, so I place the shelf on a piece of cardboard on the kitchen floor and carefully begin each coat. About half way through, my husband Rob pops his head in the kitchen, overwhelmed by fumes and perplexed at my new project.  “You aren’t suppose to spraypaint in the house, Dell.” He’s looking at me with that incredulous frown. “It’s fine, I’m being careful. And I’m almost done.” “Seriously, you should stop. The whole house is filled with fumes.”  “I’ve got the window open! It’s fine.” Just then, the furnace kicks on again, because I DO have the window open. “See, the fumes are getting circulating around the house. You should take this outside.” The guys are watching us with wide eyed interest from the living room, although Aladdin is singing for their attention. Rob shakes his head. I put down the spray can and start towards him. I figure I can smooth this over with a well needed hug. His eyes go huge as he is staring at my bare feet. I look down. Behind me is a trail of crimson footprints on the linolum. I peer back at Rob. He’s not happy for a moment, until he realizes, this is MY mess, not his.  “It’s fine, huh?” The guys are all hanging about the door jam, marveling at the tracks across the floor. I’m clearly in the wrong, with images of footprints in the sand stuck clearly in my mind. I don’t dare take a step into the living room. I turn back around and find the paper towel. After I’ve put a couple pieces under my feet like mock shoes shuffling across the floor, on the way to the mop, I place my hand on the stove. It too streaks, but brighter than the floor. It’s going to take a while to clean this up. Once the floor is cleaned and no harm, nor foul aside from a few of the pitted spots on the linolum, I begin to wipe down other surfaces. The counter comes clean. The table doesn’t really matter because it’s about to be covered with the new table cloth. But the stove… that was another matter entirely. The metal finish seems to gather the paint drift like a magnet. When the cloth touches, paint pools but wipes up quickly. The back of the stove doesn’t prove to be as easy. It is a porous plastic that absorbs the tint and forever becomes pink. Yes, I said it, PINK. That girly, pastel pink stove will remain a reminder, “Dell was here.” I’d been better off using graffiti which would have been simpler to live down. The rest of the house survives unscathed, although the purplish carpet through out the house seems a bit richer. So lesson to learn, if you ever decide to paint the town red, make sure you do it outside. Well ventilate area does not mean just an open window. And, finally, spray paint should have a warning label - May cause ghost prints when used inside. (Source: pure1gr.livejournal.com)

tumblrbot asked: WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE INANIMATE OBJECT? My blanket.

Well, my friends, it’s been a long while since we’ve sat down and shared our thoughts last. I am not even sure where to start, so I’ll be right in the middle of things.     Welcome to my new/old blog. This will be the home of all that ever was and ever will be - a massive riot of thoughts ricocheting looking for a place to sink in. I’m not a good shot, so be warned. I’ll be going through the decades and picking up the pieces and putting them together like a puzzle, a time traveling mosaic of memories, if you will, feigning some sense of intelligence and coherence. I know not what I do. Ok, well I do, but it’s simpler to play silly.