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The Intruder

This is a recycled story, published some time ago, that some of you have seen, but I thought it should be updated for the season and for the slew of new readers that have joined the fun since then. Enjoy!

 

“Steve, I think I hear someone downstairs” my wife said to me as she shook me and woke me up from a deep slumber.

“What… what’s going on?” I murmured still half asleep.

“Shhhh” she said. “I think I hear someone downstairs!”

Now I was wide awake. It was the middle of the night and there was an intruder in our house. I wondered why our dog, a 200 lb. St. Bernard, hadn’t woken up and barked. I quickly remembered though, all the times I had come home from work, walked into the house and not awakened him.

“Great watchdog” I thought to myself.

“Should we call the police?” my wife asked.

“Whoa there, hold on. Let me sneak down there and see what’s going on.”

“Okay, but what if someone’s down there?”

“I’ll be fine.” I crawled out of bed, adrenaline spiraling through my body, threw on some sweatpants and started heading towards the bedroom door.

“Be careful”, she said as I left the room.

I took a quick glance at the kid’s bedroom doors and both were closed. I had been hoping it was just one of them awake and downstairs getting a snack or something to drink. Two closed doors meant both kids were still asleep in their rooms. I continued to the stairs.

The stairs in our 120 year old house are terribly creaky. I’ve always thought that would be beneficial someday when the kids were coming home late at night. But not now! Not as I was risking my life to find out who was walking around our house in the middle of the night. I desperately tried to remember which steps made the loudest noise so I could avoid them, but other than the bottom three, which I knew were loose, my mind was drawing a blank. I gently took each stair, trying to be as silent as possible.

First step… okay.

Second step… okay.

Third step… CREAK!

“UGH,” I groaned quietly jumping down one more step to try to minimize the noise. I stood there quietly trying to catch my breath and get my heart rate down a little bit. In the deadly stillness of the night, I heard some rustling noises downstairs that sounded like it was coming from the family room. “This is absolutely nuts” I thought. “What are you thinking?”

But something drew me on, so I continued down the creaky steps, one at a time and thankfully, mostly quietly. Those last few steps could be a problem, but maybe a few loud creaks would scare off the intruder. I moved quickly… CREAK… CREAK… CREAK… and I was in the dining room, heart beating out of my chest, but still alive, and having not yet come face to face with anyone.

The rustling noise was still coming from the family room which was the room next door to where I was standing. I guess my plan hadn’t worked! With my back against the wall, like one of those cops you see in a Hollywood blockbuster movie, patrolling a house full of armed thugs, I peered around the corner. That’s when I saw him, this intruder that was invading the privacy of our house. His back was to me and he was working fast moving about the room with a bag packed full of stuff.

I stepped back behind the wall to reassess the situation. My heart was beating uncontrollably and I noticed that my hands were now shaking. “I’ve seen him before” I thought. “What is he doing here?” In just that brief glance I had recognized his grayish white hair and his clothes. I stealthily peered around the wall once again and he was still there, back towards me, but moving fast… so incredibly fast… doing his business rapidly so he could get to the next house, to the next job.

For a moment I just watched in stunned amazement, afraid to startle him, afraid to interrupt him. Finally I couldn’t help myself. “Pssst” I said, trying to gently announce my presence. He didn’t hear me. “Pssst” I said again, a little louder. This time he whipped around rapidly, surprised at being seen, his eyes wide open and his white beard and his traditional red suit now clearly visible.

“Oh, it’s just you” he said with a relieved tone. “For a second I thought it might be a kid.”

“No, I checked and they’re still sound asleep” I reassured him. “But what the hell are you doing here?” I scolded. “You scared the crap out of me. My kids don’t believe in you anymore. I thought someone had broken into the house.”

He smiled that familiar, big grin and laughed that familiar, jolly old laugh and tossed me a big chocolate snowman wrapped in silver and red foil. “Eat this and go back to bed” he said as the snowman flew across the room towards me. “Lots of kids say they don’t believe anymore. Most of ‘em still want to believe but there’s just too much peer pressure from their friends. I’m not ready to give up on yours just yet!”

“Yeah, I guess that makes sense” I replied.

“Here, put this in one of the kid’s stockings, I don’t need it. I ate a bunch of candy before I turned in tonight.” I tossed the snowman back to him. “Guess I better get back to bed.” “See you next year, maybe?” I asked as I started to turn around to head back upstairs.

“We’ll see, that’s a long way off, let me get through this year first.”

“Yeah, okay… alright good night” I said and I turned back towards the creaky stairs. For a brief second I wondered if I was sleep walking and I stopped and glanced back. No, I was definitely awake, but our guest was gone, the dog was asleep on the floor gently snoring, and the rest of the house seemed deathly quiet. I grabbed a glass of water and poured it down my parched throat as I pondered this late night encounter.

A few moments later, up the stairs I went, back into the bedroom. My wife was asleep as if nothing had happened, but as I climbed into bed, the jostling of the mattress woke her up.

“You okay?” she mumbled, her now half asleep.

“Yeah, I’m fine” I said. “I just needed a glass of water… I haven’t been sleeping real well tonight. Must be all that chocolate I ate.”

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What’s in the News?

Old houses are mysterious places, filled with stories and history and artifacts and memories of all the residents who have ever called that house a home.  Sometimes those mysteries are in plain sight, easy to see, easy to decipher.  Other times houses hide their history under layers of paint and wallpaper, or inside walls, or under floors, only to be discovered when renovations are in full swing.

We’ve all surely read stories of homeowners finding jewels or money hidden under floors or in spider-web covered attics. People find household items and tools that were accidentally dropped inside unreachable crevices during building or renovation.  Occasionally lucky homeowners discover old photographs and letters that were intentionally left inside a wall by previous residents who knew that someday someone would be tearing into that wall as their family grew.

We have done our share of renovations at Brown Road, but so far have not found a hefty bundle of cash inside any walls. Our contractor did pull a small, seemingly handmade hammer out of the inside of a wall during one stage of our construction and we found a picture of two young girls that appeared to be from the late 60’s or early 70’s. More recently we began updating my son’s bedroom. Under layers of carpet and linoleum type flooring, we discovered a section of the floor that had been insulated with layers of newspaper. We had known it was there from pulling up corners of the carpeting years ago to see what the wood floors looked like, but it was only now that we finally began to update this particular room.

These newspapers were Chicago Tribunes, from various dates in 1949.  They were in amazingly good condition, preserved under layers of flooring and there were probably at least one hundred pages to look through.  There were so many fascinating things to share, but in the interest of brevity, I picked just a few interesting items and photographed them to share below.

Some Headlines:


From the sports page… YES, that would be the BROOKLYN Dodgers.

In entertainment… Danny Thomas at the Chez-Paree.

and Al Jolson singing in “black-face” would be frowned upon today.

Before the bailouts, when Detroit was KING!

Back from the war? You can own one of these town houses for only $190 down!

For you ladies, here’s some fancy Gabardine suits for only $39.95!

and for Mom and Dad, keep your baby Dry and Comfy.

I could have gone on and on, there were so many interesting and unique articles and photographs and advertisements.

So, I won’t encourage you to go tear up some old flooring or punch some holes in your walls.   But, you never know what might be hiding inside your house!

 

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An Empty Well

I sit here late at night, a glass of wine and a flickering candle by my side. The room is pitch black other than the light from my laptop screen and the orange glow from the fire in the wood stove. A blanket of fresh white snow covers the ground outside, the remnants of yesterday evening’s snowfall, the first of many as we head into the chilling months of a long Michigan winter.  I sit here quietly, alternating between tapping on my keyboard, and admiring the silence and the peacefulness and the crackling of burning wood. The warmth of the fire engulfs me and the desire to wrap up in the thick blankets of my bed is overwhelming.  Its moments like this that make me feel content, as if there is a truer and more existential existence than the chaotic lifestyles we have all accepted as normal.

I sit here tonight trying to write, but I have nothing to write about.  I try to be funny, but nothing makes me laugh. I try to be poetic but the words are not rhyming. I try to write anything, but the proverbial well is empty.  I crank the bucket all the way down, inch by creaky inch, and at the very bottom, the bucket hits the dry ground.  But why is it empty?  Isn’t this when writing should be spectacular, in these moments when all of the situational stimuli are in perfect harmony? This is my romantic vision of “the writing life. ” Shouldn’t the words be flowing like an open tap?

But what is “the writing life” when you are only a blogger?  Many of you have written before about that moment when you were finally able to call yourself a “writer.” I have not reached that point and I’m not sure I ever will. I’m not really even sure what that means, to call oneself a writer.  Sure, I sit here in my idyllic environment with my crackling fire and I tap keys on a keyboard… and words appear… and it makes me happy… and it satisfies some internal creative drive that I have.

But am I a writer? I don’t know…

My grandmother, who has long since passed away, was an art teacher and a significant creative influence in my life.  She was an amazing artist, able to sketch pencil drawings and paint beautiful watercolor paintings. She handcrafted porcelain dolls out of clay and hand cut and hand sewed the clothing they wore. She saw things differently than other people and she taught me how to see the world through the eyes of an artist, through the lenses of creativity.  Long ago she gave me a copy of the classic Annie Dillard book “The Writing Life” which I have mentioned in previous posts.

For a short time during her later years, my grandmother wrote a column for a local newspaper.  She wrote about personal topics and simple anecdotes about life.  She wrote columns that readers connected with.  I guess it was like blogging before the internet was around to allow us all to write our own personal blogs.  But I’ve often wondered if she ever considered herself “a writer” and what that word meant to her…

…and if she ever cranked her bucket all the way down to the dry ground of an empty well.

 

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Overlooked… AGAIN!

I am mad!

I am really mad!

I am really so fucking MAD!

Do you know why I am MAD?

No?

Well, listen up, ‘cuz this is some serious business!

You readers probably know this already, but just in case you don’t… in case you are not a subscriber… in case you haven’t seen the front page…. well… I have been overlooked once again. OVERLOOKED… ONCE… AGAIN! Do they think I haven’t noticed? Do they think I’m not offended? Do they think I haven’t figured out that they probably are not even considering me?

Well… BELIEEEVVEEE MEEEE… I HAVE noticed. It’s a sham, it’s a crock, its criminal. Time and again I’ve put myself out there in front of the world and time and again I’ve been overlooked. Overlooked like the last kid picked in gym class for the dodgeball team. Overlooked like some dork at the school dance, standing against the wall, hoping the homecoming queen will ask him out. Yeah, I’ve noticed alright! I keep getting overlooked and… I… AM… MAD! In fact I have been overlooked so many times I’m starting to feel like Susan Lucci at the Emmy Awards.

Seriously, are they saying I don’t have what it takes?

Well, you know what? I think I do have what it takes. I mean, what the fuck do these other guys have that I don’t have? Is it because I swear too damn much? Or what… do you have to have connections or something? Do you have to kiss someone’s ass?  Do you have to be like a goddamn movie star?

I mean, who in the hell do these people who make these decisions think they are? Who’s involved in the selection process? What’s their criteria for selection? I want to know! I want some facts and figures! I want some answers to these questions!

I demand some goddamn answers!

Because, you know what? YOU… KNOW… WHAT? I think it should finally be my turn.  I think I deserve it because I’ve worked hard and I believe I have a large fan base that would support my selection!  Think what it would do for my reputation, my fame, my stature.  Think how my blog would grow! Next time around, I want to be selected, I want to be on the goddamn front page!

I will not be OVERLOOKED any more!

I mean, who the fuck is Bradley Cooper anyway? Sure, he’s handsome and has great hair and stunning blue eyes and perfect teeth, and sure, he won this time…

… but frankly… I’ve never heard of the guy.

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