Treasure Hunting

We live in a very old house. No one seems to know exactly how old, even the public records. I recently had a conversation with my insurance person regarding this. You see, my house is not what insurance companies feel comfortable with, but it's okay, if you pay them more, they get over it pretty quickly. Although we only put in one claim in close to thirty years, I can hear them shudder when I call because they are basically pessimistic when it comes to 200 plus year old barns with imperfect flooring, horses and goats that spend their lives figuring out how to escape on to the road, the absence of sidewalks and fire hydrants, old trees close to the house and of course, they have read the blog so they know I am accident prone. I called my insurance person because we have the addition going up, basically doubling the size of the house, and I wanted to be sure we were covered over what has turned out to be (no surprise) a very protracted construction period.

She says, (after taking a swig of gin or whatever she keeps on hand for my phone calls) "What can I do for you, Rodeo?"
I say, " I need to make sure I have coverage for this addition - remember we talked about it?"
She says, "Let me pull up your account." I know she's got it in a bookmarked file on her computer, marked with a skull and cross bones, so it takes her no time at all.

"Now" she says, after another swig," Your original house is what? sixty years old?"

"Noooooo....it's like 160." I am patient. "The house you can see above the ground we think was built around 1876? Remember? there is a plaque on the wall in the stucco?"

"Stucco." she's starting to remember.

"And, remember, there is a house under the house that predates 1790? - the part with the dirt basement?" I hear her choke down some more gin.

"And remember, we talked about why it says sixty in the public records? Because when we got canceled by the old insurance company, you looked it up and it said sixty? That was in 2000 = and we figured that was when the Rural Electrification Program came through and we got electric, and the house then showed up as having been renovated, and the Simpsons who owned it then put the apartment in because Mr. Simpson had his knees broken by that bull and they hired a farm manager?"

"Riiiiiiggghhhhtttt." I'm losing her.

"No, no - you remember this, because you made the same noise then. Really, we brought the title search in from when we bought the house and you made copies, and it does indeed say the house, at least the part we live in now, was built in 1876. So that makes it...sort of 120. But we know it's a lot older. Because of the house underneath. We went to the Courthouse and we have records that some squatter named John Alford lived here long enough before 1790 so that he got the land from the new gov't, when they seized the land from the Penns? And now, we are building this beautiful addition - and we modernized everything, got a new metal roof, and a new septic, and well - well for water, not well, like I'm finished speaking well."

I realize that none of this is important in the context of our conversation, except that it makes me sound like I am pathetically trying to get her to like my house. We finally do get down to discussing coverage and get that all straightened out but I wonder if, in the future, some record will say the house was built in 2009.

And I start thinking about value. This is the second house Charles and I bought together. The first one was our 'smart decision' house. It was brand new, in a first time home buyer's neighborhood- a little three bedroom ranch house at the end of a cul de sac, with lots of kids in the neighborhood. The 300.00 mortgage payment, which included taxes and insurance, kept us awake at night - 17% interest! But we knew it was better than that 150.00 a month rent we had been paying. It was perfect, but I was never really at peace there. Charles was working on it all the time, tweaking that perfection: he put in hardwood floors (the only house in the neighborhood to have them) beautiful gourmet kitchen with a state of the art microwave oven/stove combo (again, only house in the neighborhood to have one) brick pathways and an over engineered fence to keep our two dogs in. Meanwhile I died a little inside each day, from boredom with the Tupperware parties and Creative Plaything parties, and just... two.... dogs. Only thing was, our son was deliriously happy.

So when I found this neglected but graceful farmette, not three miles from our present house, I went about convincing them both that this was also a 'smart decision' house. I told Charles that if he was going to work on something all the time, it ought to make a difference! He could restore this house, and never ever run out of projects! (I am a SERIOUSLY good closer) It took about six weeks of driving past every day for him to see the possibilities, but also it had a caveat: it was CHEAP but had almost 8 acres! He would be a LANDOWNER. He would have more ground than his brothers and sisters, PUT TOGETHER, and that was very important cred for the middle child of ten. Also he could have a big tractor. That sealed the deal.

My son was another matter. At eleven, the last thing he wanted to do was move away from his friends. We would be changing school districts. He looked at the no sidewalks, no pavement situation and asked plaintively, "Where will I ride my bike?" I explained he could have a DIRT BIKE. He said, "I have a dirt bike now." Which he did, but we had to load it in the car and drive to a place he could ride it. I said, "You can get up every morning and just ride right in your own backyard. Let's take a walk, and I'll show you what I mean." We climbed through the fence, into the pasture, weeds over our heads, gnats buzzing around our noses. He's skeptical. We walk and walk and I show him the barn full of weird scrap metal things, the huge rock in the field perfect for a fort. We actually get winded, fighting our way to the rear property line. I turn him around and say, look - all the way up there - that would be our house! And then.. I see something in the grass, half buried in the ground.

Pushing his head down for a closer look, I say, "Look! Every day we can come out here and find interesting things like this! It's an odd plant! We can come back every day and see what it grows in to! Some unusual pretty flower maybe!"

He shrugs me off. "Those are plastic grapes, Mom. Some old country person came out here and dropped their plastic grapes."

Okay, so he was right, and like most conversations that follow this, things are never as good as I think or as bad as my husband and son think. But he has no choice, we move and after years that fly past in the blink of an eye, he's moving in again, with his children and wife because it's the best place in the world and I can't stay here by myself.

But it is an old house, and when you live in an old house, people always ask you the same question: "Did you find anything valuable? Did you find buried boxes of silverware or cash? Did you find hidden antiques? Treasures?"

I got a metal detector once and within feet of the kitchen door, it started to click. I got a shovel, dug down and found a metal filter from a coffee percolator. I found what appears to be an entire tractor buried behind the barn. I have found shards of pottery and lots and lots of Schlitz beer bottles hidden beneath trees and in the eaves of the barn (someone seems to have had a problem). We have found big and small horse shoes, strap hinges three feet long, and lengths of chain.

Once, while facing the fireplace in the basement, I impulsively reached up into the beams and found ancient hairpins and a comb. In a moment transcending time and space, I knew a woman had stood where I stood, and let her hair down in the evening. And for a reason I will never know, never put it up again.

When we removed the mantle piece in the living room, a 1960's dog license fluttered to the floor. My son found an unusual blue marble deep in the foundation. He handed it to me and in minutes I found a Marble Guy on the internet, sent him pictures and was informed it was a regular old marble. Well, except that it was OUR old marble.

But no coins, silver or anything of real value (which means, worth money).

What we didn't find, and couldn't, was the real stuff. Like the reason that woman never put her hair up again. The first cries of the babies born here. The last sighs of those who died. The stuff that life is made of is in the air we breathe here, not in the ground or in the walls, and can't be sold on ebay. It's what we will leave behind when we go.

Men Who Wander At Night Through Honey Brook

People think nothing happens in Honey Brook, PA.  Especially at night.  That is because they do not know where to look, which is, surprisingly, out your bedroom window between 11pm and 2am.  Here are some examples:

About ten years ago on a rainy summer night, Charles and I were jolted out of sleep by a crash. We had a finely honed routine to deal with unexpected events in the night:  C would get on the phone to the police, I would jump into the sweatsuit and muck boots I kept next to the bed, grab the shotgun and a dog, and head out side. Many of you are probably thinking this is an odd role reversal, but the secret of a successful marriage is knowing what each partner's strengths and weaknesses are.  Charles was good at dialing the phone for help and speaking coherently, I was good at getting dressed fast and yelling into the dark.  Out into the dark I went, while C called 911.  

In the moonlight and light rain, I saw a pick up truck at a forty five degree angle to a car, which had its front end smashed into the bank on the opposite side of the road.  A man and a woman were struggling in the street, in silhouette, backlit by the headlights. 

Remember, I am the one who is chosen to go see, because of my ability to shout into the darkness.  I had just seen on Court Tv where I get all my news a story about a predator who forced women off the road in the darkness and abducted them.  Well, this was NOT going to happen on my watch.  So I started to channel the 80 year old Southern Woman who lives in my brain primed for just such occasions:  HEY YOU ALL KNOCK THAT OFF!

The figures stop struggling, turn toward me and shout together: MIND YOUR OWN DAMN BUSINESS! 

Huh.  The dog stopped pulling against the leash and sat right down in the street.  The shotgun slid from the ready position to my side.  

Okay. Apparently, some trailer drama had spilled out of the park onto the public crossroads.  He shouts:  She stole my damn Camaro!

She shouts:  I bought the rims for that Camaro!

Suddenly, they feel it IS my business.  But I don't.  I tell them to finish killing themselves and go back inside where I hear Charles on the phone:  No!  Don't put me on hold!  

I give him the skinny, he hangs up and we go back to bed, as the truck and the damn Camaro speed loudly off into the night.  

Fast forward to 2007.  Charles has passed away and I am living by myself for the first time.  I don't sleep well.  Another summer night and I am tossing and turning in the moonlight.  Softly at first, but steadily increasing in volume, a man is singing below my bedroom window.  

Not in a nice way.  I think it was You Shook Me All Night Long, but I can't be sure.  I put on my sweatsuit and boots, grab my cellphone and take a look.  

Ah, there he is, beneath the spruces, clearly not targeting my window specifically, but in general just singing to the night.  The 80 year old Southern Woman who lives in my brain shows up again and I shout:  What the hell are you doing?

He stops singing, looks up:  Shut the F**k up!

I call 911 - Charles is gone, someone has to do it.  I give the operator my address and she says: What is the nature of your emergency?

I say:  I am not sure it's an emergency but there is a fella singing on my lawn.  He just yelled at me.

There is a pause.  The operator says:  Oh, well, Shirley?  I need you to do something for me. When you feel comfortable, could you go out and flag down one of the emergency vehicles in your area?  The fella you are seeing dumped his motorcycle about a 1/4 mile from your house. He has a head injury and wandered away from the ambulance crew.  They are out looking for him now.  If you could let them know where he is, that would be great.

When I feel comfortable?  So I grab my comfortable things (dog, shotgun) and head out the door.

In the misty night, the first person I see is my son, coming across the driveway.  As I become more aware of what is going on in the darkness, I see four police cars, an ambulance, some men in clusters talking and laughing, and two men in silhouette struggling in the darkness,  and my son.  My son?

He says:  Mom.  Put the gun down.

I say: Well, of course.  But what are you doing here?

He says:  I heard your call come over the scanner.  You are my mom, so I thought I should find out why there was a man singing on your lawn.

I raised that boy right.  I beam with pride.  

He says:  You can go inside now, everything is under control.  Just then, one of the struggling men shouts:  Can someone give me a hand with this guy, he's going to get away again?

All attention is finally on the obnoxious, drunk, head injury guy and I go back inside and toss and turn until the morning.

Fast forward to 2008.  Again, it's a dark summer night, the windows are open and I am trying to remember whether I fed the chickens.  I am just about to go outside and do it again when the phone rings.  It's Deneen down the street.  

She says:  Shirley, I am going to play you a message I just got from the State Police.  Listen to this.

The  Police were calling everyone with a landline and telling them a man with a brain injury, six foot three inches tall, two hundred and fifty pounds and wearing a John Deere shirt was on the loose in the township.  Seems he 'escaped' while fellowshipping down at Wyebrook Baptist Church which is about a half a mile away as the crow flies over the tree farm.  Now, this describes about 80% of the male population of West Cornmeal so I wasn't sure what they were excited about. Choppers began coming over the trees and the State police were driving up and down Rt. 82 with deer spotters in the trees and the bushes.  I rethought the whole feeding the chickens thing and started calling girlfriends in the hood who didn't have land lines.  Time and again, the first thing they said was the same:  Damn, I am going to have to go out and get the keys out of the trucks.  Except for one.  She asked:  Is he cute?  It is lonely up here some nights. Later  we hear that they catch him over by the fish hatchery.  

With all this going on, compressed into the handy time frame in my brain which I use to collect evidence about my situation, I get a hair trigger about what appears to be an emergency.  My family tries to be sensitive about this, and one night my son calls me to tell me that he has heard on the scanner that the grocery store and the  Burger King have both been held up at gun point and the perps are driving around in a white mini van.  He wakes me out of a sound sleep with this information and I respond (I think very appropriately):  Okay, I'll get the big dog out of her crate and I have the shotgun right here.  He says, Jeesh, Mom, it's not like they are heading right for you!

Oh, yeah?  

But, you see, when you are alone in the dark, everything is happening to you, and only you.  I am going to fight this feeling and get over it.  I am going to sleep right through the next middle of the night thing and leave the shotgun in the closet.  Unless of course, the deer spotters and the choppers are coming right over the house, and the man is singing on the front lawn, and the chickens have not been fed.