Good Morning.
I currently live in a rented house with about 1200 square feet of living space, not counting the unfinished basement I need in case a tornado blows into town. I sold my considerably larger home about a year ago to the great relief of my family members who decided long before I did that I should downsize. Finding a rental that would accept a large dog isn't easy; some apartments will take a cat or a small dog breed but not a seventy-five-pound Golden Retriever. I don't understand
that sort of foolishness. A cat, if not declawed, will have a field day with the woodwork, the drapes, and the neutral carpeting, and a small dog's soprano probably will not amuse the neighbors as much as the rich contralto of a Golden.
My daughter undertook the task of finding me a place and after a few weeks happened on a house not far from the one that I owned. The landlord was okay with the dog, there was a fenced yard, and the place would be just fine, she thought, along with a friend who went with her to view the property.
Here's where things get interesting. Daughter and friend escorted me to see the house and pointed out all the features they
thought would appeal to me and effect the signing of a lease. You love old (read, in serious need of refinishing) hardwood floors and your rugs will look just wonderful. Look, there's louvered doors (straight out of the Sixties) and shutters on the windows in the room that will make a great office. And you're always fussing about people who demand fancy kitchens, especially when they can't even boil water, and this kitchen will be perfect with its original cabinets painted such a nice shade of gray and the classic linoleum that will be softer underfoot than hard old tile. The friend, an interior designer, suggested a large black and white check fabric for the kitchen curtains to give the room a French farmhouse vibe. We'll paint the bedrooms, my daughter said, and get rid of those terrible colors the previous tenant slapped on the walls. The living areas are an acceptable warm gold, she offered helpfully, and the exterior is a tasteful yellow with white trim and brick red shutters that surely must remind me of New England.
I signed the lease but we weren't done yet, not by any means. Bring your fake fireplace, the decorating team advised, since they knew I'd yell about not having a fireplace, and so we brought the ventless one I'd gotten decades ago because I wanted a fireplace in the master bedroom but didn't want to pay to have it built. It works fairly well with gel fuel that kicks out flames that look real but don't particularly smell like, say, a nicely aged cedar. You can use your skinny Christmas tree, the team declared, the one with the painted snow on it. Look, you can tuck it right behind the love seat over there by the side window. A word here about my trees: I was raised by a father who bought a tree a couple of days before Christmas when the only items left on the lot were just plain embarrassing. The tree went up on the 23rd, came down on the 26th, and as a result of this annual childhood trauma, I determined to have several well-shaped trees in my home, fake ones I could put up in October if I was so inclined. Not anymore. I have room for only the tall, skinny one now, but I did find space for my village, my elves, and assorted nativity sets, including the one my daughter intends to make off with someday when her brothers aren't looking.
Here's the thing. I love my place. It kind of looks like me with its out-of-date louvered items, vintage floors, and a beat up swing set embedded in concrete in the back yard. My daughter and her family painted the bedrooms, and I used the guest room curtains from my old house in the kitchen to save money, but it still looks Frenchy and farmy, perfect for turning out a Hollandaise sauce. And now if you'll excuse me, I need to spray paint a couple of wastebaskets and an old colander I am turning into planters for my patio.
Best regards,
Elisabeth
Comments