by East, Ginny;
I tried to love his house, but the place was just so far removed from the quaint, comfy cabin we set out to buy or build, I couldn’t help but feel disassociated. I had dreamed of close quarters to inspire togetherness, a home like all those cabins we had rented over the years that left us dreaming that someday we might actually own one. I desperately longed for freedom from financial strain and the liberties that would come with not having to chase a buck to get by. I would write. He would make art out of wood. No more absentee husband distracted and agitated by building blunders. No more spending, spending, spending, to set up this perfect life that I was starting to doubt would ever come about. I had hoped for green living. This was putting us in the red.
Eventually, inevitably, the house was completed. The new life that we had set out to live over two years ago was finally set to begin. Overnight we went from living in the total dishevel of a refurbished, ramshackle cabin to living in the grand quarters of a multi-million dollar home (if you counted the outbuildings and land).
The first night, our family stood in the grand foyer of our home with mouths agape. A sound like a gunshot rang out, causing us all to freeze.
“That was a log cracking,” Mark explained.
With the heat turned on, the eighty logs he had harvested, sanded, and strategically placed were starting to dry and split. Our new home was talking to us, inviting us in like some uppity butler who seemed convinced we’d come to the wrong address.
“This will be like living in a bowl of Rice Krispies,” I said. “I guess you’re used to the sounds since you’ve spent so much time working here for over a year, but for us, just standing in such a fancy room feels weird.”
“I’m not used to it either. I feel like I’ve just checked in to a resort I really can’t afford,” Mark said, humbled by his own creation.
“My tummy feels funny,” said Neva, obviously nervous at the idea of setting her toys up in a room three times the size of her last one.
“Pepper likes the house,” Kent pointed out as our city-raised cat leaped from log to log and walked along the high ledges, turning the rafters into his own indoor, forest-inspired amusement park.
The lack of furniture made the house feel a bit like a mausoleum. Our voices echoed in the cavernous great room. We had rolled out a rug from our former house, but the ten foot oriental looked like a postage stamp. Our dining room table was dwarfed by the open space, as if the furniture had shrunken to the size of an end table. Clearly, more shopping would be required as the simple life continued its ravenous appetite for every resource we had. I was afraid to ask what heating and cooling a home this size would cost us, especially now that we no longer had an income or the promise of one, but I seriously doubted Mark had given common sense expenses like that a thought.
“What this place needs is new furniture,” Mark said.
“What this place needs is a Christmas tree,” I pointed out, wanting to make the children feel more at home and to get us all focused on tradition rather than more consuming by buying furniture. “It is December, after all.”
Everyone agreed a tree would be a good place to start. Mark didn’t join me in bed to christen our new home or make me feel in any way comfortable. I went to bed alone. He stayed up to go online to buy a 15-foot artificial tree to fill out the empty spot in the great room, and shop around for potential furniture.
“I got a huge tree on sale so we actually saved money,” he said after hours of online shopping.
I wondered how my husband, a true math whiz, continued to insist his spending money was a way of saving. He had spent over a million dollars so far, claiming all the while that he was “saving more money than anyone else could.”
The tree arrived a week later and the entire family devoted three days to putting together the one thousand independent branches in the kit, but the finished tree was fittingly majestic. Now, even our Christmas tree looked as over the top as the one at Rockefeller Center.
So began our first Christmas in the new house. We had a tree two times the size of any we’d ever had before, in a house four times the size of any we’d ever lived in before. Boxes were unpacked, and family knickknacks were placed in corners to give a homey touch to the place. As we established a normal schedule I started to wonder if perhaps this house wouldn’t come to fit us after all. Maybe I really did lack Mark’s vision and I was a stick in the mud, constantly raining on the parade rather than just enjoying the party.
As we were putting up the last touches of holiday decorations, Mark got “the call.” He looked at the number on the caller ID and took the phone up to his office, his muffled voice trailing down the balcony just loudly enough for me to deduce the severity of the conversation. When he came down he motioned for me to sit.
“The Smiths are going bankrupt,” he said. “They aren’t going to pay us the balance owed on the business. I’m calling our lawyer so we can begin the eviction process to get them out of our buildings. At least then we can sell the buildings and we’ll have all that money to pay for our new life.”
“Are we going to be able to keep this house?” I asked softly.
“We have a million dollar mortgage. Considering we are unemployed and have no prospects, and even if the Smiths did pay us everything, which they won’t, we couldn’t pay off the price of this house. I doubt it.”
We hadn’t been living in the house a month. The strain and sacrifice Mark had imposed on the family to get us here had been a nightmare. Now we were going to just move on before ever enjoying that ideal family time so long anticipated?
I could have been angry. But after 17 years of marriage, I knew my husband well enough that I should have assumed his house project would spin out of control before he even began. He made clear he wanted to show the world what he could do without me as a driving influence or as a factor in his success. He wanted to be a builder, and this house was his résumé. His need to feel important had always far outweighed the dull subject of his family’s financial stability.
My shame was that I didn’t stop him. I wanted him to have his dream, and I had been clinging to the hope that supporting him while he built his dream house would make him happy.
“This house has been so important to you. You must feel awful,” I said.
He shrugged and ran a hand along a thick log support. “Leaving dance left this huge hole inside me. I poured all my artistic inspiration into this project instead.” He gestured to the breathtaking room with a humble smile. “This house is the great recital of my building career. Performance art. But now that I’ve created something this cool, I’m done. I can let the place go.”
And just like that, my husband severed his attachment to the grand house that had been his obsession for two years. He did so with the same ease he had changed hobbies or eating styles in the past. He’d had the thrill of spending himself sick, and enjoyed reveling in the warm wood tones and harmony created by his perfect juxtaposition of rock and tree. Since indulging his creativity had been what the project was all about from the beginning, he couldn’t care about living here, and he certainly didn’t want to become a slave, working to support an expensive home now. He started talking about the next house he wanted to build.
I was devastated by the simple truth that my husband felt indulging his creativity should take precedence over his family’s welfare. But what was done was done.
“I really did intend to build us something practical, but every time I was faced with a choice, all that money in the bank made me think,
‘why not’? So I kept inching forward on every decision, until I threw out the concept of limits altogether. Once I realized I’d gone too far, I figured I’d shoot the entire bundle. I knew when our money was all gone, we’d have to live simply. In the meantime, the house would be an icon to my potential. And because you kept harvesting homegrown eggs and veggies from the garden, it was easier for me to pretend we were still purs
uing the simple life,” he said in a moment of honesty.
“Hey, there’s nothing simple about growing eggs at home,” I said. “So we’ll move. Find a simple cabin in the woods like we talked about from the beginning.”
I had no clue how he expected us to pull off another life reinvention with all our resources drained. “Do you think maybe we should consider leaving Blue Ridge?”
“I don’t know. I’d sure miss my workshop. I still dream of creating art in the medium of wood.”
I wondered how he could miss a workshop he had barely set foot in. Mark was in love with the idea of his workshop more than the reality. He still hadn’t unpacked the glut of tools and wood he’d purchased despite our paying endless bills to set up electricity, water, shelves, and storage for a workshop that sat for years non-operable. He did make some lovely furniture in formal classes at the Campbell School, but only because the social element and other people were part of the process to witness and voice recognition of his talent. He had yet to make anything other than a rustic coffee table on his own. Mark had never been a man able to work independently, and I began to understand that to be his partner, I would have to embrace whatever art he was into at the time, rather than honor or commit to my own. When we were both dancers, life worked. Now, I’d have to be his crafting sidekick and channel all my efforts into his fleeting passions, or we were headed for trouble.
“I love my barn more than I ever loved this house.” I said. “So I’m more than OK with selling and getting back on track with what we set out to do from the beginning.”
Deep down, I still dreamed of following our original life plan. For me, that meant exploring an organic lifestyle, having time to write and reflect, and taking care of my family full time. Mark wanted to work with wood and spend Sundays on his tractor, landscaping on a supersized scale. He wanted to build houses and be recognized for his unique talent and make a living as a builder.
Had we not had so much money to work with from the start, we would have had no choice but to move slowly, cautiously, practically, and we could have achieved the personal lifestyle we craved. Was it too late to correct things now?
“I can still make this work,” he said. “We can put the house up for sale with twelve extra acres at this corner of the land. You’ve said tending fifty acres is too much for you to handle anyway. We’ll still have thirty-seven acres, the barn and workshop paid off. I’ll build us a simple house on the other side of our property, the kind of house we planned in the beginning.”
My heart clung to the possibility.
The problem was America had just plummeted into the worst housing and financial crisis in years. Houses were not selling anywhere, and property values had nosedived. The million dollars we had in cash only two years ago was now buried in the land beneath our feet, and the mortgage Mark took out had put everything at risk. Luckily we had separated a few acres from our first mountain property and we sold this lot, so we had a chunk of cash left to help formulate and survive a back-up plan. Tallying up, we figured we had enough money in the bank to hold on for a year or so as we waited for someone to come along to bail us out of our oppressive payments on the big house.
“We could go back to Florida,” Mark said. “We could reopen the dance school. We still own the buildings.”
“I’d be fine with that, but how can we sell this house if we are not here to keep up with the maintenance?” I said.
“I would much rather stay here forever and scrape by anyway,” he admitted.
Scrape by? Did we want to bury ourselves in a tiny town without the security of a million dollars promising a comfortable retirement and the ability to take care of our children’s impending needs? Did we really want to raise our kids as country residents without opportunity and forego any hope of sending them to college or paying for weddings, braces, or anything else parents traditionally do for their children? More importantly, was Mark ready to downsize and live a more conservative life for real?
I sighed, thinking with tenderness of Donkey and how he would have to be left behind if we returned to our former lifestyle. “For richer or for poorer,” I said. “But why is it we keep swinging between the two like a pendulum in overdrive?”
“Because wherever we go, we take ourselves along.”
Always practical regarding business, I said, “Let’s just sell the house for the mortgage amount and cut our losses. We are certain to unload the place quickly if we price it lower than others of its kind. We’ll have learned an expensive lesson, but we’ll still be left with half a million – which is more than we ever dreamed we’d have as two simple dancers.”
Mark visibly bristled. “I’m not going to let us lose all that money because of my house project. You will likely throw that up at me for all time. I’m going to list this house for top dollar.” He named a price five hundred thousand dollars over the most recent appraisal.
I thought he was kidding. No one would pay drastically more for a house than it was worth, especially in this economy. And we were in no position to play Russian roulette. I told him so.
“You only think that way because you don’t value my house design the way others will,” Mark said. “Trust me, rich people will write a check for any amount to get something they want, and they are going to want this house. Price won’t be an object.”
“Rich people are rich because they’re careful with their money,” I said. “In this economy, we’d be stupid to not just get out as quickly as possible.”
Mark furrowed his brow. “I know what I’m doing.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. I wanted him to be happy, but my parental instincts made me unwilling to gamble anymore. We still had children to raise and educate and a retirement to fund somehow. I didn’t want to grow old and be a burden on my family or society. We had had our fun, but I could no longer play the little housewife who didn’t contradict her husband’s choices.
“Your plan just doesn’t make good financial sense. Honey, we have no choice but to sell as cheaply as we can, and accept that we’ve made mistakes.”
“What you mean is I made mistakes.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Selling the house for less than we spent on building doesn’t negate your talent as a builder. You created a magnificent house. The horrid economy is responsible for spoiling our chance to escape without penalty.”
Mark’s jaw tensed. “You are so like your father. You have no vision. I have faith. If you build it, they will come...”
“Who will come? Bill collectors?”
A flicker of hatred flashed into his eyes and, taken aback, I let any further argument die on my lips.
“If we don’t sell this house, it will be your fault,” he said. “You are manifesting bad energy and I’m gonna pay the price for it.”
I was always annoyed when he quoted new age philosophy as validation for avoiding common sense or conservative realities. “I just want us to think practically,” I snapped.
“God, I hate that about you.”
Apparently, there was lots he hated about me. But there wasn’t one thing I could do about regaining his favor that wouldn’t go against my best instincts or speed our downfall.
“Absolutely speaking, the more money, the less virtue; for money comes between a man and his objects, and obtains them for him; and it was certainly no great virtue to obtain it. It puts to rest many questions which he would otherwise be taxed to answer; while the only new question which it puts is the hard but superfluous one, how to spend it.”
—Henry David Thoreau
FAMILY MATTERS
Mark’s father, sadly, had passed away with cancer only months after Mark’s parents moved to Georgia to be near us. His mother, Sonya, was now painfully alone, without her husband and the Sarasota community. She made clear to everyone that she hated the cold, hated
the mountains, missed the malls and franchise restaurants, and felt vulnerable living anywhere other than in an active, suburban neighborhood. I felt badly for Sonya, and partly responsible for her unhappiness since the reason she moved was to be near us. She began slowing down, needing more care that we ever imagined she would. We helped her move into a small house near us and visited often to help with yard work or to share a meal. We encouraged her to get involved in church or to make friends, but as grief and loneliness took its toll, she seemed less and less inclined to fill the empty corners of her life with anything other than family. All she cared about was Mark, me, our children, and her daughter, Dianne. She pleaded with us daily to visit more, call more, to take her shopping, or to just make time to sit and talk.
I tried to be there for her, but she was Mark’s mother, not mine, and I couldn’t help but feel she craved his attention. I was a poor substitute. So, I implored Mark to let his mother move in with us as soon as we finished the house. His sister was in no position to take on the responsibility, and we certainly had built a large enough home. But just as Mark had refused to allow Denver to move back home when I wanted her to live with us, he wouldn’t now entertain the thought of his mother‘s presence interrupting our new, free life either. He announced that since his sister had no children, she should be the one to take care of their mother.
“Dianne is fifty and single. You can’t possibly want to burden her with an elderly mother.”
“She’s broke and could use a roommate to help pay her bills.”
“Considering we have—well, had—a million dollars, and we have found our soul mates for life, we should take on this burden. Not like we have to be free to date.”
“Sorry, but I don’t agree. I’m like one of the three little pigs,” he said. “My sister and my mother built their houses out of straw and sticks, and I was the only one who built a house out of bricks. Now that the big bad wolf is blowing their houses down, they are running to me to take care of them. But why should I?”
