The White House
It’s only 3:00 p.m. and it’s already dark. The rain has been coming down steadily for hours, and a low-hanging fog is making the whole valley look sleepier than usual. I go outside to do chores and am quickly up to my ears in mud. Staying clean outside today, or even dry, is not an option. There are ten mouths and eight beaks to feed. The minute I step off the porch the cacophony of squeals, squawks, brays, and baas overwhelms me. Everyone wants my attention, all at the same time.
As a child, I didn’t know much about growing up or even whether I would. As an adult, I still feel the same. I always knew as a child that I didn’t want to stop playing, if that was what growing up meant; nor did I want to give up laughing loudly till my eyes watered. But I also knew I wanted security for myself and my pets. And as an adult, I still feel the same.
What I have always known is how I want to live. I needed a green space for exploring and hiking. I knew I wanted to live in the country and have a small home with plenty of outbuildings. I dreamed of a small town that had angled parking, and I knew I wanted animals.
Almost ten years ago, friends began telling me about an abandoned home they thought would be perfect for me. The “White House” was my immediate pet name for it, although it wasn’t completely white; two lonely window frames on one side were sloppily painted bright green.
After searching for the owners and hammering out a rental deal, I moved in with the house’s occupants: mice, rats, voles, wasps, hornets, bats, and lord only knows what else. I’d glimpse beady red eyes in the beam of my headlamp as I lay in bed in the middle of the long winter nights that I jokingly referred to as “three-dog” nights because I’d sleep with my hat, mittens, and layer upon layer of clothes on, and all three dogs lying on the bed with me. Despite all that warm company I often couldn’t fall asleep, either due to the cold or the noise of those tiny nocturnal varmints munching, running inside the walls, or playing in the attic.
As part of the rental deal, the owners bought me an outhouse and found me a free Ashley woodstove. The first time I used the outhouse I met my new neighbors. Just as I was sitting down to take care of business, they drove by and waved. I waved back, but later that day I had friends come over to help me turn the structure so the door no longer faced the road. I knew I’d never take the time to close that darn door, and the truth is, I’ve got a touch of claustrophobia.
As for the free stove—there was a reason it was free. In this low valley I could never seem to get it to draw; perhaps I also had green wood, but I swear there was more to it than that. I once drove over to my neighbors’ and asked to borrow their thermometer. Later I called them up and asked, “Is forty-four degrees cold for inside a house?” I hadn’t any running water or pipes to worry about, just my fingers and toes.
My shower was located on the back side of the house. I attached a hook and a pulley system about eight feet up the wall. To use it, I’d either go to the backyard and patiently hold my shower bag under the pool of water in Diego and Carlos’s spring-fed trough, or I’d run up the road a ways to Morris’s property and fill the bag from his water pump. I’d hang the bag outside, and a few hours later, after the sun had warmed the water, I’d carefully attach the bag to the pulley and slowly maneuver it up into position, always managing to knock my head with the sack of water a few times before setting it right. (Water is heavy! Pulling the full shower bag into position was no easy feat, and neither was lugging two huge multigallon jugs of water down from Morris’s after filling them. “Yes, I have running water,” I’d tell people. “I run for it every morning.”)
During this time my dogs—Moses, Lewis, and Raime— were my constant and faithful companions. Diego, my oldest donkey, came next, followed by Carlos, who I got to keep Diego company. Then I saw a friend’s daughter carrying a basket with one tiny kitten no one had picked from the litter, and I couldn’t resist. Newman is old now, and diabetic, but he is just as lovable as when he fit inside a coffee cup, though not nearly as lively.
My rental home was starting to look like my visions of a real home: country life, small house, animals and a stream they could drink from, a small three-walled building for the donkeys, and an outhouse. This was the first time in my life I could remember waking in the morning without the urge to get in the car and take off. I actually liked staying home. I loved the tiny house, the land, the creek, and the fact that I could go out in my bathrobe or even stark naked to throw my donkeys their morning hay.
I never have minded the little things, and with enough elbow grease and a whole lot of love, the White House began to feel even more like home. With all its charm, I often wondered why there weren’t any closets, a sink, counters, or a bathroom. My home was mostly a shell, but I loved it all the same.
With winter coming now, I find myself reflecting back on those early days at the White House. It’s fully plumbed now, and all I have to do to get water is lift a handle. I can look out my window and see Diego and Carlos out in the back pasture. There are more outbuildings, more animals, and less land due to the floods of 2007. The Kickapoo Valley Reserve is close by and provides me with endless hours of hiking and exploring. Sadly, though, none of the towns nearest me have angled parking.
I can no longer call my home the White House, as I had it painted a pale green years ago. It desperately needs a new roof, and most days I wish I had more hands and time to get all the projects done that need doing. I’m still not sure what growing up means and how it relates to my life at the moment. But what I do know for sure is when I look out my windows, I see exactly what I envisioned all those years ago.
And better yet, something I never did imagine happened along the way: I came to own my home. For better or worse, it’s mine, and my friends of fur and feathers will be greeting me for many mornings to come. Maybe this mean I’ve grown up, a little at least.