In November of 1959. my dad moved our family into the house where he still lives. I was four. I remember that time because we ate McDonald's for lunch, back when that was a new thing and people didn't eat out very often. We moved out of apartments, and my parents were very proud of having a house of their own complete with lots of green yard. The house was forty years old then.
My father's house is two-story, I guess, although the outer walls slant some. We remodeled the bathroom in 1969, got rid of the iron, clawfoot tub and installed a shower. It is a nice ceramic shower, but most adults can't stand up in it completely because of the way the outer walls of the house are.
Dad will be eighty in June. My mom has been gone for nine years, and although he never was very aware of preventative maintenance, things have gone downhill since she was around to "keep him on track." (He will not admit that when she did this, he accused her of nagging.) My younger sister and I have been bugging him to move when he laments about the state of the house, but he has neighbors that take care of his snow (an immediate concern), and I think he is overwhelmed by all that moving would entail. Shortly after Mom died, my daughter and I were trying to clear out some of the basement, and he put back much of what we threw away, including a piece of linoleum from before the bathroom was remodeled. Those Depression babies! Never know when you might need something.
The plaster in the house has had some major fall-outs over the years. The first were in one of the spare bedrooms, so Dad wasn't concerned. The next was in the livng room over his reading chair. He is a retired English teacher and he likes to read, so he noticed that. Then the basement hallway, again no big deal. Recently, though, for some reason he moved the furniture in the dining room and found that a good portion of the lower wall had just fallen off, something plaster and lathe walls have a tendency toward when they are old.
My husband tried to talk Dad into drywall, but no, he wants plaster and lathe, and he actually found somebody to do the repairs. That presents another problem. Although six of us lived happily in that house, it is small, only 900-1000 square feet. He has lived there forty-fivc years, and he really doesn't like to throw anything away. He and my mom moved a lot when they were young, but Mom saw to the packing and organizing. Clearing out the rooms so that work can begin is overwhelming.
The best illustration of this is the story my daughter called with last night. She found some friends to help move furniture. Since my dad is testy when he is in a good mood (you can be that way when you are almost eighty) and she wanted to keep him happy, she asked him to put sticky notes on the furniture to say where he wanted it moved; she would make sure it got moved there. Dad groused and refused to use the sticky notes!
I'm glad my dad is taking care of the house, but I feel sort of sorry for him, too. I have watched the toll on him as he lost friends and family over the years, and in an odd way the house is a metaphor of this. Recently his younger brother, who is seventy-aix,was diagnosed with cancer, and Dad was understandably upset. Those of us who love him wondered if he was afraid of being the only one left. In a way, I think, the decision to give the house a face-lift is his answer to that. If he has to be the only one, so be it. He will make the life he has the best that he can.
My father's house is two-story, I guess, although the outer walls slant some. We remodeled the bathroom in 1969, got rid of the iron, clawfoot tub and installed a shower. It is a nice ceramic shower, but most adults can't stand up in it completely because of the way the outer walls of the house are.
Dad will be eighty in June. My mom has been gone for nine years, and although he never was very aware of preventative maintenance, things have gone downhill since she was around to "keep him on track." (He will not admit that when she did this, he accused her of nagging.) My younger sister and I have been bugging him to move when he laments about the state of the house, but he has neighbors that take care of his snow (an immediate concern), and I think he is overwhelmed by all that moving would entail. Shortly after Mom died, my daughter and I were trying to clear out some of the basement, and he put back much of what we threw away, including a piece of linoleum from before the bathroom was remodeled. Those Depression babies! Never know when you might need something.
The plaster in the house has had some major fall-outs over the years. The first were in one of the spare bedrooms, so Dad wasn't concerned. The next was in the livng room over his reading chair. He is a retired English teacher and he likes to read, so he noticed that. Then the basement hallway, again no big deal. Recently, though, for some reason he moved the furniture in the dining room and found that a good portion of the lower wall had just fallen off, something plaster and lathe walls have a tendency toward when they are old.
My husband tried to talk Dad into drywall, but no, he wants plaster and lathe, and he actually found somebody to do the repairs. That presents another problem. Although six of us lived happily in that house, it is small, only 900-1000 square feet. He has lived there forty-fivc years, and he really doesn't like to throw anything away. He and my mom moved a lot when they were young, but Mom saw to the packing and organizing. Clearing out the rooms so that work can begin is overwhelming.
The best illustration of this is the story my daughter called with last night. She found some friends to help move furniture. Since my dad is testy when he is in a good mood (you can be that way when you are almost eighty) and she wanted to keep him happy, she asked him to put sticky notes on the furniture to say where he wanted it moved; she would make sure it got moved there. Dad groused and refused to use the sticky notes!
I'm glad my dad is taking care of the house, but I feel sort of sorry for him, too. I have watched the toll on him as he lost friends and family over the years, and in an odd way the house is a metaphor of this. Recently his younger brother, who is seventy-aix,was diagnosed with cancer, and Dad was understandably upset. Those of us who love him wondered if he was afraid of being the only one left. In a way, I think, the decision to give the house a face-lift is his answer to that. If he has to be the only one, so be it. He will make the life he has the best that he can.
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