Merry-Go-Round

The 1990s were the epitome of excess. As DIYers early-on, this was no problem. If I wanted or needed something, I'd just barter for it. We were homeschooling our four (very) active children and I was always wrestling with my butterfly brain as I took on these projects, but somehow the progeny made it to productive adulthood despite my deviations. One such segue makes me grit my teeth. How I ended up painting two big rooms and wallpapering three rooms, just to barter for three used rugs, I'll never know. The wiser, older me would have said yes to just one of those areas. And this was a doctor, who could have afforded to not take advantage of my charity. Either way, after all was done, I had three rugs laid out in our 20x20 foot living room. That room was originally a garage, but the builder decided to convert it to conditioned space. One trend of the 90s was stenciling on walls and I had become an expert. I would ply that skill to lots of bartering as well, but in our cavernous box of a living room, I had stenciled folksy houses and birds above the chair rail and at the ceiling. The bottom part of the wall was slate blue, the top was cream. I loved it, until I didn't. When these rugs arrived, nothing seemed to work. They were also slate blue, with creams and rusty colors twined in there. 

I had slaved over several projects for a decorator friend, without payment. He would get me all excited about some project he was working on, and I would jump in and paint things, stencil things, and paint some more. He definitely owed me. I asked him about my wonky living room. One afternoon, while we were having school, he called and said he was 10 minutes from our house. He wanted to look at the room and give me counsel about where to put my rugs.

I will call him Vincent. He was very short and very round, sort of like a barrel. Heavy as lead but light on his feet, full of drama. I would label him a Grandiose Narcissist, now that I've heard of that, but he was insanely gifted and just a mess. Difficult to deal with but then delightful in the same breath. He had four children and was on his second marriage. He wound up with three wives and three divorces in his lifetime, but none of that made sense to me because he was like one of the girls. One time, Ken brought me the phone and whispered, "Hey honey, it's your girlfriend." When I picked up, it was Vincent and I instinctively said, "Hey girl!" Well, because...

Back to the rug saga... He looked quickly around the room and started bossing the boys about where to move the furniture. He moved some tchotskes around, told me to buy two large ficus trees and where to put them. He said to paint the whole room a rich, warm cinnamon color, above and below the chair rail. The rugs and furniture were all angled and oriented toward the big fireplace. Fifteen minutes of ideas, then he dashed out of there. I threw the kids in the van and headed to Home Depot for paint. These are the reasons there are gaps in my childrens' educations. But they can build you a house, pull down a tree or save your life in case of emergency.  

I got all the tasks done that Vincent suggested, including the ficus trees. The furniture and rugs were placed where he told us, everything cleaned up and finished. We lit a fire in the fireplace and I curled up on the couch with the kids and read them a book. From that moment on, where the room had felt like a sterile box, it became a warm, welcoming oasis for our days. Winter mornings, we curled up with books and our studies. When we didn't have firewood, I would buy those little logs that come in a package at the grocery store -- you could just light them and have four hours of magic (and probably toxins, but who's noticing that?) Evenings when Ken was working, I would put the children to bed upstairs, then have quiet time in a yummy chair by the fireplace. The room became my favorite place. When it was time to sell the house, I grieved losing that the most. Sweet memories of us around the room filled my mind, and I determined to do the same thing at the next house (though it ended up being a rich red -- yes, the excess was still rampant). 

Time has gone by and we've seen many cycles of decor run through -- from the excess of the 90s to the modernization of the 2000s, then there was the Gray Period, then the Joanna Gaines Farmhouse period that included everything black and white, and now maybe we're moving to the Cottage-y scrumptiousness that I love and have never really left behind. My delicious Victorian house is full of layers of living and experience, too much, even. The children are having their own children, but I still curl up with my books and a cup of coffee by the (unworking) old fireplaces in this house. When the grands visit, laps and books are mandatory. 

What goes around, comes around, but I've snatched the parts that I love and kept them (my poor kids, when it's time to dispense of all this). And I understand that yes, wallpaper is back. I've had decades of applying and then removing so much wallpaper, it's criminal. I promised myself I'd never do it again. 

But there is that toile that would look darling in my kitchen...  

Loaded Questions

"Do it now" said the sign on my Daddy's workshop table. Nike has a logo that says "Just Do It!" One of my favorite writers/speakers, Elisabeth Elliot, had a memorable saying: "Do the next right thing" (referring to the ever-asked - What am I supposed to do?) All of this sage wisdom came to the top of my mind when Ken and I asked our annual question, usually pondered during our anniversary trip (somewhere in the Southeastern USA, once a year, could take place any time from late January to March). The question is: "If you had the power to change one thing about me, what would it be?" That is a loaded missive, having the potential to ruin a romantic weekend.  But one that we all need to sincerely ask each other and be willing to take the truth of it. Ken's answer to me, for many years, has been the same: "I wish you could handle stress better." He has said that so many times, I told him he had to come up with a new one this year. I've been on a long mission to change my freak-out ways, but it might just be that I'll have to be dead before that happens. As Ken would say, "It is what it is." Since I've boxed that one up and put it on the shelf, though still having the label facing towards me, he came up with another one: "I wish you would finish what you start." A slight humming began to take over my ears and the tinnitus returned. Because this one truly hits where it hurts.  

I love a new project. The vision, the dreaming, the fact-gathering, then the supply-gathering. What stings is the prep for anything worth doing. It might mean moving furniture, killing the dust bunnies lurking there, washing down walls, taping things up, pulling out a ladder or twelve. Then there's the euphoric first brush strokes or  the new patterns emerging. It's going to be gorgeous! I'm in the zone, working like a Trojan. Then the phone rings. I put in my ear buds and get back at it. When the battery fails, I have to plug all manner of things in, and meanwhile I remember I haven't eaten in 10 hours. You would not know by looking at me that I ever forget to eat, but yes I do. And then I overeat because I'm starving. So there's the meal, putting up my sore feet for a bit, stopping for the new episode of Hometown, then my mojo stalls and Ken arrives from work with a messed-up house and a sleeping wife. He, the Marine-worthy guy who gladly does the same routine 500 days in a row, just to keep things on an even keel. Then God gives him the Queen of Chaos. I like chaos. The juggling is what makes the world go around. Or is it the Marines? Inquiring minds want to know.

In thinking about Ken's great wish for me, I remembered my DNA. His Mama, he and I were crafted from the same mold. MawMaw's house was ever in a state of half-finished jobs. Two-day-old dishwater in the sink, a washing machine with clothes molding from who-knows-how-long ago, and planting pots half-filled with soil and strewn through the house. She went to plant something in the garden and the phone rang. Then Jim and Tammy Faye came on the TV so she devolved into a nap. Her kitchen floor was always partially mopped and you could see where she stopped because the mop was still there. My own Mama is nothing like this. Don't tell me God doesn't have a sense of humor.

These kinds of people generally marry Marine-kind of people. At first, the Marine thinks the Scattered Ones are delightful. They are interesting, fun and passionate. The Scattered Ones think the Marines lack on the creative side, but they feel secure and begin to contemplate that maybe there is hope in the world instead of sheer mayhem all the time. Time goes by and the Marine's plans are constantly getting thwarted or ignored. The Scattered feels stifled. There's capacity for lots of conflict and then there is war. Many marriages don't make their way past this. I recall a few dishes flung and even a fist through a wall in our early years, all of them by me, not the Marine. Who'd have thunk? I have to say, if that hunk of beef starting throwing things and putting holes through walls, I'd have been calling his Daddy and mine too, while I swiftly departed the driveway. He's too big and hairy to not take seriously. 

So even with all that, we made it through. I've learned to restrain my temper and do the talking early, before it escalates to stupidity. And he has learned how to show me love and to admit his own weaknesses. It's still a work in progress, with lots of God-grace showered all around. 

Back to the sign: "Do It Now" -- I wrote that mantra on my calendar board in the office this morning. These are my word(s) of 2026. Daddy learned to do that pretty well. His yard and home were beautiful, along with Mama Marine's housekeeping skills. He had a long, successful real estate career after he retired from the Postal Service. I think it's because he reminded himself on the daily (and maybe hourly) to Do It Now. Plus, he truly cared about his clients and people, and that rarity made Doing It Now worth doing. May I be like Daddy...   

And as for Ken asking me that loaded question, he didn't, but I told him anyhow. It had something to do with his qualifying round at NASCAR (in my 2018 Ford Explorer). Please tell me there's hope...