Home again

On the 2003 birthday party circuit, it was a quality stop in an expansive driveway just down the street. Our neighbor Peter was turning six, and one big inflatable slide (featuring water) was the perfect centerpiece for a crowd of appreciative little party guests in swimsuits. In the midst of bright sun and squealing, I met Patty, the birthday boy's aunt, who had come down from Chattanooga for the festivities. We had a spectacularly mundane conversation that primarily centered around—what else—our children, and we might have touched a tiny bit on Chattanooga.

Many more happy birthday parties and a whole lot of life's peaks and valleys followed that warm August morning on Dawn View Lane, and late one afternoon in April, 2009 we left that street. The family growing-up home home was in the rearview mirror, and there were a million unknowns ahead. Surprisingly enough, we eventually landed in Chattanooga, and in a vague yet endless sort of way, I wondered if we would ever get to have our own pretty home again. 

So I found a new pastime in the contemplation of tasteful and inspired homes of all varieties--old and new--cottage, condo, contemporary, colonial—I was made to think about all of them. And somewhere along the way, there was a Damascus Road real estate experience when I finally worked out one simple truth: 

For every home around—large or small, beautiful or kinda not—someone, somewhere of some generation worked and/or works hard to make it all happen. 

And this latter-day revelation came about because I thought a whole lot after we landed in a somewhat dowdy little rental with popcorn ceilings and brown formerly-plush carpet that had been trampled by the footprints of hoards of humanity. 

But while our place was somewhat aesthetically challenged, it was perfect for this season because it had an amenity like no other—the finest next door neighbors who made the whole deal worthwhile. In over seven years, we shared Signal Mountain life while they routinely got me out of thousands of jams. The big benefits showcased here were home contemplation and location, location, location. It was all worthwhile. 

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Way back on Dawn View Lane, the little version of Annabelle spent countless hours playing cheerleader with her two best friends on the street, so it was exceptionally providential when life did come full circle and she actually became one for her high school senior year. Making it all even better, her efforts would be for McCallie where her grandfather had also cheered many years ago—which was an extra super bonus for those of us who are sentimental. 

One evening almost 13 years after the ATL birthday extravaganza, I found myself sitting in the McCallie basketball stands with the very same Patty from that party, once again chatting about our children, only this time the much bigger editions of them. 

And Patty asked me the strangest question: 

“Do you ever think about buying a home?” 

Oh, I don't know, only all the time, but I don't think it can happen. 

Patty, a loan officer at a mortgage company, said call me if you ever want to talk about it—which I did not do for a pretty long time because the whole deal seemed highly unlikely. I figured I could buy something out there, but didn't believe I could buy a house that was even close to being what I wanted and located where I wanted to live. 

But one day I did call Patty, and she presented me with a strategy that could maybe, possibly, perhaps, somehow work for acquiring a place of our own. It quickly became apparent that being super clever and deliberate would be critical in finding what seemed impossible, so I enlisted the help of a terrific real estate agent on the front lines in our desired neighborhood, then waited and hoped something good might happen.

And it actually did. On the 8^th anniversary of the day my mother died, I got a call to see a little cottage that was coming on the market. With a generous representation of the amenities I had long ago decided were supreme, and on a pretty street with lovely next door neighbors, it was weirdly right. The thoughtful seller had done extensive renovations with an eye for quality finishes and respect for a storied older home, unknowingly providing elements from a myriad of houses we have loved before--on Dawn View, our friends' homes I had always admired, and many places beyond. With the help of a host of great people and remarkable good fortune, somehow it all worked out. 

So here we are, marking the first anniversary of having our own home again. No one around appreciates the privilege and responsibility of home ownership more than I do. Walking through here every day, I take in all the little details and wonderments that make it special, always considering how everything fell into place. Mainly, I just marvel that this is ours. While not big and not grand, it's kinda perfect. 

I am thankful for having spent seven years and four months in deep home contemplation. I am thankful for all the fortuitous circumstances making it possible, and I am thankful for a God who provides well beyond what I deserve—birthday parties, friends, cheerleading, good neighbors and lovely places to live.

All along the way

There is a highlight reel in my head covering the University of Tennessee days, and therein lives a little old lady named Evelyn who I saw most every day in three years of Morrill Hall living. I remember Evelyn well—she was a vision of grandmother at the cafeteria entrance, ladylike to a T with a white tailored cafeteria jacket over her dress and a soft, unassuming voice. Her hair was a hybrid of strawberry-gray-white, styled with waves that undoubtedly came from a weekly shampoo and set.

Evelyn was on door duty every weekday, counting all the students who came into the Morrill Cafeteria. With a kind greeting, she marked each diner's arrival with a squeeze of a silver clicker in her hand. No matter what the weather or what was going on out in the world, Evelyn was a soft-smiling sentinel at the door. Occasionally, I dropped by during slower off-hours and caught a fleeting glimpse of her sitting down, just before going vertical for the official click.

In my three year tenure, I never saw Evelyn beyond Morrill's second floor, not on the stairs, not coming through any door. It was like she only existed during dining hours in that place. Like many other students, I enjoyed seeing Evelyn because she was a constant from the outside world dropped into the midst of the ever-lively college life. She never, ever deviated off script from what was in that role—most often, simply, "Hi". I always asked Evelyn how she was because I can still hear her saying her perpetual reply: “Just fine”.

I didn't know enough to acknowledge my final college dining experience before graduation, and I realize at some point Evelyn clicked me off one last time. It took many years for me to give it any consideration at all--not until William's time at UT when he mentioned that Morrill cafeteria is no more and, making way for progress, the whole building was eventually razed.

With benefits brought by the passing of time, I now wonder all sorts of things about Evelyn—where did she live, did she have a family, what did she do in life before becoming a college cafeteria clicker, and what brought her to work in a college cafeteria anyway? (I decided she had to be a Baptist from north Knoxville--that just suits her in my mind). 

While I was a fairly decent--albeit typical, self-involved--college student who had really good examples in parents who preferred talking with other people about their lives instead of about themselves, I still missed that boat with Evelyn--someone I saw multiple times, five days a week over three years but about whom I know nothing. And she is joined by a cast of thousands whose paths have crossed mine in the real adult world since then.  

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Thoughts about Evelyn came back around when I visited Furman during Annabelle's time there. There was a legion of university staffers dotting the campus landscape early on a warm Sunday morning, bringing direction, enlightenment, and order to the cavalcade of families descending on the university. Everyone I encountered was helpful and friendly, and I marveled at the large number of them deployed for the magnificent fall ritual. With every arriving parent's mind fixated on the joy that is moving in and the excitement of the new college year, the Furman folks fell right into place as simply background scenery.

Later on, I asked Annabelle if she thought folks who work at Furman enjoy being there, and she answered she did not know because she never had that type of chat with anyone. I suggested that this year she could make opportunities to talk with people she sees every day and find out more about them and their lives. And this was the perfect segue for me to tell the Fable of Evelyn, her clicker, and my wish to know if she really was a Baptist from north Knoxville just like I wanted her to be. 

I'm sure Evelyn has been gone a very long time—but she's not  forgotten. I imagine a woman of Evelyn's reticent sensibilities would never expect that, way down the road in the future, someone would be writing about her while pondering the considerable value of learning more about people you meet along the way.