A Rich Life

I’ve always been rich and I have always lived in a fine house. In my lifetime I have lived in nearly three dozen homes. (34)  More if we count the temporary lodgings of one to three months, but those were simply layovers on my travels through this life’s journey. Every house was special in some way or the other to me. Four were my favorites. At 66 years old, I have yet to live alone. I went from my parents to my spouses to being a single parent with my children. 

My first recollection (relax, this isn’t about every house) goes back to being three years old in a wonderful and roomy farmhouse. What an amazing imprint and start in life. Small wonder, hehe, I am no fan of tiny houses or close quarters. “Give me room, lots of room…don’t fence me in.” as the old Cole Porter song goes. It was my parents and me in a two-story farmhouse on a huge dairy farm. Our landlords lived across the gravel driveway in the only other house on the property. They were an older couple living alone except for my best friend, their Dalmatian dog named Smokey. Both houses sat way back off the main road on top of a hill. I remember the view of the fields and the surrounding farms and the closest houses being within seeing distance. Lots of other memories, but my fondest being these two. 

Cows are herded back in at the end of the day for milking. Some warm evenings I would join my dad as he walked them back to the barn. He would hoist me onto the back of one of them and I would ride all the way to the barn. In my mind I was a child star circus performer riding atop the star elephant with the trainer walking alongside us. We were headed to the Big Top to join the other performers. 

The other was all the times I spent with Smokey. He will always be my first best friend. He taught me great life lessons. The best place is outdoors. Sitting quietly and having patience is a virtue. Mostly, he taught me how important loyalty and love is in relationships. I wept long and hard when we moved away. 

We moved to my first favorite place when I was four years old. We used to call it Princeton, because that was the name of the cross road. Sometimes we would call it by the last name of the man who was our landlord and my father’s boss. This time we were on a cattle and crop farm. It was hundreds of acres. Our little house sat at one of the far corners and not far from the big farmhouse that had once been an inn years ago. On the fringe of the farm, in the same corner and touching the road were our neighbors’ houses. I think there were six houses. They made up my world. The road and the crossroad were busy and dangerous with frequent car accidents. The neighbors’ houses faced the roads but all our yards blended in the back to one another. I could safely walk to all of them. The farm itself went on for miles and miles. It would be years later before my girlfriends and I would walk its breadth. 

Everyone had big vegetable gardens, but ours was the biggest because we were on the farm property. Some had fruit trees or grew grapes. We were the only ones with room enough for chickens. Everyone had cats and dogs. One neighbor had a horse that he stabled a few miles away on another farm. Everyone too, had big beautiful shade trees to sit under and spend time visiting one another while they broke beans or shelled peas or simply rested and watched us children play. 

I loved that place. I had two new girlfriends that lived three backyards away. I had a crush on the much older boy who lived in the pink house across the gravel driveway. I had my own swing set and a wooden seat tree swing. I had pet cats, dogs, chickens, rabbits, baby birds, and even a huge coffee can packed with mud full of earthworms. Each had a name. I had even named one of the huge white poplar trees. His name was Uncle Joe and he was quite understanding, wise, and a great listener. 

Our yard was not fenced in, but to separate the farm it had a wire fence that was at the edge of our yard. That’s where the white faced heifers were. They were beautiful. They rambled freely all over the farm. One of the ponds was close by and they came up the hill often to drink and wade. It was far enough away for me to imagine it being a watering hole in Africa. The cows were any animal I imagined them to be and with very little effort the outline and shadows of the little bushes and trees in the distance transformed into monkeys and other animals I knew about from watching old movies. 

My mother had a less affectionate feeling for this place. There were many strikingly different amenities from the large farmhouse we had lived in previously. This was a single story with only four rooms and a large back porch. There was a kitchen sink but that was it. There was no other indoor plumbing. There was no water heater. The kitchen also had a gas stove for cooking and a small black wrought iron coal stove for extra cooking and extra heating. The main heating was a large coal burning stove in the living room. The main bedroom was on the other side of the wall so it was reasonably warm in the winter, especially when handmade quilts were piled on the beds. The extra bedroom on the side of the kitchen was cold in the winter and really was a three season only room. 

Mom worked hard in that little house. It was a chore to keep it clean and warm. She did most of the work in the garden and that meant canning and freezing the harvest. She hung wallpaper to spruce things up in the living room. She sewed clothes and made curtains. She cooked all the midday dinners and the extra farm hands joined us at our table. Dad was busy working the farm and even sometimes picking up side jobs at the other farms. I couldn’t appreciate how hard things were. 

On the weekends we went visiting the extended family. Both my parents had family nearby, cousins and aunts and uncles. I had a great grandfather until I was four years old. In the summer we drove down to visit family in Kentucky. 

My life was idyllic, but my mom saw life as a dichotomy. There were us and there were rich people. I suppose the truer description would be us and others, with the others falling into subgroups. There were us and poor people, us and people who lived in town. There are many ways for us to learn our differences. For me though, that home was a wonderful place to grow up and I enjoyed most of it. I had plenty to eat. More than enough. Every meal was like a feast. We ate breakfast, dinner, and supper. I was an adult before I figured out what lunch was. 

I had nice enough clothes. It was a rural community so we were all much the same. High fashion had not come our way. Clothes from Sears and Roebuck were good enough. I had that, and mom made some, and my aunts would gift me clothing. I was set. 

I had every toy I wanted. Of  course, the trick to that was knowing instinctively the limits of what to ask for. I was the youngest of the cousins so things and clothing got handed down. There were some things I didn’t get. I never had a yo-yo and I did want one. Dad was adamant about that being a gross waste of money. I didn’t get roller skates but that was a landscaping issue. We had a gravel driveway and no sidewalks. Besides, being outdoors, or with my friends, or reading books, and watching TV was entertainment enough and I was rich. 

But sometimes I did see the dichotomy. 

The landlord’s daughter was two years older than me. Old enough to not be a playmate and close enough in age to be a peer. Although, my two best friends were one and two years older than me. She didn’t want to play with me. She would invite them over and not me. They were first cousins and lived in the same duplex so when she invited the older she had to invite the younger. I wasn’t in the loop, but it still hurt my feelings.

One time my mom went to her house to babysit her while her mother was in the hospital. We were in her bedroom, with wall to wall carpet and get this, a chair!  And the bed had a canopy. That was amazing to me. Like in a Hollywood movie. You know who has chairs in their bedroom and a canopy bed? Rich people! 

Tragically, her mother died. Her father remarried a year or two later. The new mom came to our little house to introduce herself and bring a fruit basket. They came together in matching coats. Beautiful wool coats with fur trim and matching hats and hand mufflers. We sat in the kitchen, two women and two girls. I just sat there staring at how beautiful they looked. She just sat there with perfect posture in her coat and stared straight through me. The women were not doing much better. My mother’s hearing impairment made things more awkward.

You know who wears coats with fur trim and matching hats and hand mufflers? Rich people.  

One thing they didn’t have was a live-in housekeeper. The new mom was all about fitting in with the community and did much of her own work. She caused quite a fervor when later in the summer she mowed their own grass. The men and the boys did that. Well not her. She had a riding mower, another unheard of, and she wore shorts while she did it. I always admired the woman for her gumption and her self-possession. 

Years later, in my  favorite house number two, I would mow our lawn. It wasn’t a riding mower because that wouldn’t have worked on that property. It was an acre with 95 trees and/or bushes to mow around. I know because I counted. The grounds were beautiful. Two huge weeping willows in the front. I had a modest vegetable garden out back. The kids had a swing set and a tree swing. We had a volleyball net. We had  plenty of drop-in company because my husband came from a large family. All our parents lived nearby. We hosted parties and holidays and dinners and barbecues. The house was a simple and sturdy ranch style home. It had three bedrooms, plenty for us. There was only one bath, but there was a huge stone fireplace in the living room and we had a dining room and an eat-in kitchen and a roomy screened-in back porch. We had a cat and a dog that we loved. We bought a used but beautiful upright piano and the kids took lessons. I thought we would live there forever.  

But we didn’t.

The husband was looking for career advancement and then tragedy struck. There was death and financial losses so we moved away for a change of scenery and better opportunities. It’s odd how one place can hold such opposite memories. 

Opportunities did come and life got easier, but the marriage ended.

We both remarried.

I married a remarkable person. He was intellectual; genius really, and musically talented. He played piano. Have to say, I have never heard another amateur play better. I can say that too, about some of the professionals I’ve heard. He was philosophical and leaned toward religion and spiritually. He was unique, there will never be another like him. He was more. In comparison to others, you could tally them together and he would still be more. He enriched me.

Within our first year of marriage we were living in my favorite house number three, in Jerusalem, in the Old City, overlooking the Kotel. He had a mazel [good luck] when it came to homes. Hours before boarding a flight to return home, a realtor friend found this rental for us. He signed the lease. It was a luxury apartment (at the time) for a mediocre rental cost. It was nicely furnished. It was four floors. Okay, one was the entrance. It had a rooftop garden. It was divine and perfectly located. 

Some people don’t like living in a tourist spot. I love it. Everyone has a happier energy to them. 

In fact, I sometimes was an attraction. One of our friends was a tour guide. He brought tour groups walking through the Jewish Quarter on our narrow cobblestone-pedestrian-only street. He would ring our bell and we spoke on the intercom. Right on cue, I would open the kitchen window shutters, three floors above. I would lean out the screenless window, wave down to the tourists, and say, “Shalom!” 

It was all so Mediterranean! I felt like a Jewish Gina Lollobrigida!

My husband already had a string of friends from living in Israel before, and some family members lived there too. We visited back and forth. We lived next to Yeshivas [seminaries] and would frequently host guests for Shabbos. My son was in Yeshiva near Tel Aviv and would come home often. I loved Jerusalem. I loved the Old City. I loved our apartment. I thought we would live there forever. That was the plan.

But we didn’t. 

Don’t ask.

By the following year we were back in Tampa, Florida. We bought my favorite house number four. 

Again, his housing mazel. He said, “Let’s drive by the house I saw for sale six months ago on my visit back. I’m sure it’s sold by now. I want you to see what I like in a house.”

It was still for sale. It was a foreclosure. We ended up with a gorgeous designer home for a mediocre price. Okay, it was in need of some serious updating, but we made it work. It had stained glass windows, leaded beveled glass doors. There were transoms. There was an atrium. There’s more, but you get the picture. The grounds were beautiful. We had magnolia trees, oak trees, palm trees, and azalea and gardenia bushes. The couple who owned it originally had upgraded with anything available back in the day and stayed in it and loved it until they died. It showed. It was a beloved property. 

Even though our budget had us keeping it as is, it could hold its own in comparison to much more costly homes. It was perfect for entertaining and we did. We also hosted a good amount of out-of-town family and friends. It was a lovely place. It was the type of place one could live in forever.

But we didn’t.

For me, it was like dating on the rebound. It was too soon after Jerusalem. I missed the Old City. I certainly missed my son. 

There was other unhappiness there too. Don’t ask.

It was quite a place. I have a full photo album of just the house. Sometimes I show it again to my daughter. She was a baby when we left. I wouldn’t want it now, though. It’s had a few more owners since us. It’s changed. Part of the updating by one was to strip out all the stained glass and remove the atrium. Someone trimmed away the heavy beautiful canopy of the oak trees until they look like an odd imitation of palm trees, or maybe giant broccoli spears.

Oh well, life is good.

The other day, my daughter and her friend were talking about fabulous houses and amenities. You know, like what rich people have! They were trying to decide if they could have only one amenity, what would they choose. A pool, a gourmet kitchen, an indoor jacuzzi, or a walk-in closet? They landed on the pool for practical reasons. It would be what couldn’t be easily imitated. My daughter can make amazing meals in any kitchen, clothes can hang in any closet, use the bedroom mirror, and take a hot bath in the tub. Done. 

While I listened to them, I realized house number four had all of those. It had been wasted on me at the time. I’m not a water person. I don’t even go in the deep end. Back then I wasn’t into trying new recipes like now, and to be honest I still prepare only simple meals. My muscle aches were in full flare ups back then, the oversized jacuzzi was too risky for me to use for fear of slipping. Because of that too, I didn’t feel up to shopping, so the walk-in was a bit extra. 

My life is rich now. My days are my own. My greatest pleasure is my peaceful home life. We are safe and healthy. We live in an area of great natural beauty. I love the woods and hills. The beauty of it all restores me. I am grateful to live here. 

Could it be richer? Sure. I would enjoy a wall to wall cleared and thoroughly organized house. I miss the presence of more. We all would love  more discretionary income. I like the idea of more drop-in anytime friends. While we’re at it, let’s add in some more laughter all around, too. 

Aesthetics are important, especially to highly sensitive people. For me, I know the outdoors and what they look like, are extremely important to me. Our catio is the favorite part of the house to us, and it’s not even in the house. Our cats give us tremendous pleasure.

And of course, it’s the people. The people living in the home and visiting the home. It’s the people we open our doors and our hearts to. It’s the ones we wake up to in the morning, and the ones we say goodnight to at night. The people who share the driveway and the refrigerator, and sit around the table with us. The ones we love and love us in return. The ones that hold us, literally and figuratively. Our homes provide shelter and refuge for our loves, our hearts, and our souls. Every peace-filled home is a favorite home.

I’ve loved them all.

Personally, too as a bonus and to bring things full circle I can think of one thing more.

A well trained big beautiful black and white dog, constantly by my side. 

(The End)

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