In the beginning...

My grandmother, Cora Taylor Wilson Lindon, moved into this house at 1425 County Road 1950 North, formerly known as RR #1, in 1946.  She was 22 years old.  I am 39.  She had one baby -- my mother -- a newborn.  I have three - a teenager and two four-year-olds.  She had a husband who had just returned from five years of serving his country in World War II.  They were only married for six months when he was drafted.  He was gone for five years and almost exactly 9 months to the day typed on his discharge papers, my mother was born.  I have a husband.  We've been married 8 years and knew each other for two before the wedding.  Her brother also lived in the home with her.  I do not have a brother.  I have one sister - four years older and she lives 3 hours away.  My grandfather and great-uncle were sharecroppers on this land.  My grandparents never officially owned the house or the 1.2 acres that now accompanies it.  Nor did they own the 78.8 remaining acres of the original plot that they worked and farmed.  When the roof leaked, no one fixed it.  My grandmother never even picked out her own wallpaper.  The land owners did that.  They never even added a bathroom until 1964.  However, she lived here for 52 years and took amazing care of this house.  It only took 12 years after her 52 to ruin the home.  Now we own it.  Me, my husband, and our 3 girls.  We paid very little, but I cried at the closing.  I read every word of the original deed.  Our names were of course added at the bottom, but my grandparents were never even mentioned -- it was like they never even existed here.  We went in with crowbars a blazin' and removed all the soot covered, molding, dirty, wasp invested walls, floors, and ceilings until the only thing remaining were the timbers -- the original wood that built the 1890s home.  Now we are slowly - slowly putting it back together.  Each time I removed a piece of the house, my  mind would travel to a time long forgotten.  When Grandma would cook rice in a tall pot, and we all gathered in the kitchen no matter how small it was.  At first I thought I could make it look just like it did when she lived here, but it was too far gone.  Too much had to be fixed to leave what remained of her.  The chimney she once used to cook with has been removed to make room for my new oven and the other chimney has been removed to remove an entire wall which separated her pink rosed bedroom from the living room.  The carpet that Grandpa Lindon used to play solitaire on is gone to expose the original wood floors.  Each day we clear away a little more debris to make room for the new, and each day the sadness of a house in ruins weighs a little lighter.  Today I stood in the kitchen looking at the new sink, and for just a moment I could smell her house.  It was a smell quite original to her - a mixture of Timeless perfume, moth balls, and bleach.  I loved that smell.  And there it was.  Out of a dust covered gutted old house - a smell of what had been.  A reminder that even though the summer of reconstruction is going to be long and hot and dirty - the house is being reborn.  But at what cost?  We have left a life we spent a decade building.  My husband left a ten-year career and has no new job.  We sold our beautiful lake home, and we live in a borrowed motor home in the backyard.  Each time we uncover another piece of the house, I share a memory with  my oldest daughter, Faith, so she can share in the beauty of what was Grandma's house.  She left today to visit her family in Chicago.  Walking away from her leaves an ache in my throat that will stay there until she returns.

I imagine Grandma was quite fearful moving into this house for the first time - practically a newlywed and a new mother.  I share her fear.