The Thanksgiving week has ended. The last visitors (my parents) disappeared around the bend in the drive this morning, headed back to Texas as we waved a final goodbye. We wandered slowly back inside and the state of the house gradually registered: there were dirty sheets on every bed, dirty towels in every bathroom, trash in every bin, the 100th round of clean dishes awaiting removal from the dishwasher, there were crumbs where no crumbs have been before, leftovers towering in the fridge, left behind items amassing on the dining room table. In a word, a glorious mess. Glorious because that mess represented a week chock full of laughter, squeals, meals, bonfires, gifts, journeys, hikes, neighbors, friends, chatter, burst frozen cokes, skinned knees, door slammed fingers, pumpkin bread, movies, recitals, country roads and sunsets. My sister and her family returned to Baton Rouge, my 101 yr. old grandfather returned to Florida. Our house is relatively quiet once again and in the morning we’ll return to work. We’ll slowly work on restoring the house and remember as we change the sheets who recently nursed a dream there. I can only hope, as you gear up for demands of the week ahead, that your house is half as dirty as mine is.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
The Joy of a Dirty House
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5 comments:
your joyeux de vivre makes me a little jealous. We too had lots of family who came but stayed with other relatives. I worked all weekend and deposited my squeals with my sister. Brad studied every day and we grabbed what few laughs and hugs we could in spurts throughout the weekend. I envy those country roads and bonfires. We ate on the patio with a view of fences and suburban windows in mild weather that prevented logs in the fireplace. Snacked on storebought ham until the turkey was done. Played Trash Train till boredom derailed us.
We went to the Ranch. Father in Law shot some dog-from-hell that was crossing the pasture. I was sure it was just some lone coyote and fretted over it. Eleanor bumped across the pasture on the "mule" with my mother-in-law to see what this beast was. It wasn't done twitching. It was skin over bones, had no hair on its head, long teeth, sort of a "mane" and a wart covered body. I am not kidding. Eleanor is convinced it was a monster. I keep telling her it was a very ugly, very sick dog. Eleanor is still having nightmares. Happy Thanksgiving.
Hmmn...boredom or nightmares...boredom or nightmares...
Actually, Maleah, sounds like your father-in-law finally caught the much sought after DNA challenged Texan cousin of Bigfoot! Known as Little Scrawny Mangy Foot. I hear he tastes like chicken. And much tastier than store bought ham! That certainly would have livened up your dinner, Karen, especially with a nice soy ginger garlic sauce and a side of edamame.
Maleah meets Cormac McCarthy. It's a worthy start to a saga set on the hill country border - somewhere near Luling, the old settlement of German immigrants who snickered behind the backs of uni-lingual Americans when they named their town a slang word for that sublime state of marriage which is soon followed by that sublime state of family. Much like the Amish, who, for some unknown reason, named one of their towns Intercourse. And there it was, Scrawny Mangy Paws loping across the thorny fields somewhere near the Hill Country town of Luling, that Eleanor watched her granddad shoot him down......
I absolutely love this post and can so relate. You hit the nail on the head...messes usually equal a full to overflowing life.
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