The Leopold's

After four separate incidents of a certain phenomenon I begin to doubt my own experience is that unique.  Excepting that I don’t hear others discussing this, I am convinced that perhaps the issues I have experienced are perhaps not that common. My problem is related to aromatics. Specifically, scented products sold commercially to add fragrance to the home.

My wife tells me I have a hyper-active sniffer. The fact I mentally catalog various smells and revel in pointing out similarities and differences is a bit tedious for her, of that I am sure. My love for identifying fragrances and flowers by smell is older than I can recall, and I am not aware of its origin. I just know I pay specific attention to the smell of things, and often associate certain smells with strong sense memories. The result is that I am very particular about those odors I consider to be my favorites. 

This idiosyncrasy has not always been problematic for me. For instance I have a favorite incense variety (Gonesh #10, for the inquisitive) and it has remained atop my rankings for incense varieties since the mid-1990s when I burned my first stick on my bedroom windowsill on a cool, early-spring evening (there was nothing remarkably significant of the occasion, other than it demonstrates the peculiar way my brain links my sinus to my hippocampus). 

My conundrum is this: I have on more than one occasion purchased some aroma therapy product which I have really enjoyed only to later find it completely unavailable for future purchase. Sure, you say, products come and go. Live on this great-big-rock for long enough and you’ll outlive some of them.

Manufacturers, in the interest of keeping their product line fresh will change things up from time to time. I can believe that, and even understand the reasoning behind such decisions. I have also considered the false scarcity principle (pulling a certain product line to increase interest in it – read: Disney movies) for keeping customers on their toes. What I cannot explain is how this disappearing act has happened to me with four different products, each from a unique manufacturer, each a different kind of air freshening device. 

My first experience with a discontinued product was an essential oil blend from an alternative pharmacy in Coralville (just west of Iowa City) back around the turn of the millennium. NuCara pharmacy used to carry a line of aroma-therapy oils and my wife registered me for a “scent of the month” club for my birthday, whereby I was able to sample several different scent blends over a 12 month period. I found a tropical flower scented oil that I really enjoyed and purchased about 4 grams of it in a vial (in addition to the oils I received from the scent-of-the-month club, that’s how much I enjoyed it.) When that vial ran out (the oil burns slightly each time it is heated and must be discarded eventually) I went back to get more from the store only to find that they had phased out that scent. Of course no one could tell me why this scent was discontinued or if they would bring it back – I was just out of luck. 

A few years later around Halloween time we found a black licorice scented candle at the local Yankee Candle store in the mall. It was called “Black Cat” or some other seasonally-related name, but it smelled fantastic. The scent was refreshingly clean and mysterious. We burned that candle judiciously over one year assuming we would stock up the following Halloween, only to discover that they discontinued that scent as well. We have checked rigorously year after year looking for that scent. Yankee Candle, a nation-wide purveyor of scented candles, had this to say about their decision to phase out certain scents from their lineup: “We like to keep our customers up to date with fresh scents on a regular basis. While we maintain certain favorites year-round, year after year, others we update, change or just retire from time to time.” No joy. We did find a helpful clerk at the store during one annual pilgrimage to their franchise who went into the storeroom to find us a Christmas-themed “Licorice Spice” candle that was equal parts anise and mint scented. Not quite what we were looking for, but the closest we’d come in some time. 

While my wife tolerates my addiction to particular scents, she also acts as an enabler; for my birthday a few years ago she bought me a La-Tee-Da effusion oil lamp. This thing is fantastic from top-to-bottom, beginning-to-end. It is a glass lamp with a brass collar, fitted with a cotton wick connected to a stone effusion block. It functions as follows: you fill the artistic glass lamp with effusion oil (scented and flammable) and then you insert the wick and collar on top of the lamp. The wick transfers oil to the stone, which is porous and will ignite when exposed to an open flame. The stone remains lighted for a minute or two, and then when properly heated, you extinguish the flame and the heated stone continues to glow with heat and transfer odor-packed heated oil scent into the air. 

To this day I haven’t found a better way to replace unwanted odors in our house, or a better way to “freshen up” the smell of a place. My wife bought me two different fragrances. I burned through the first one pretty quickly, but the second I have been savoring for the better part of the last 4-5 years.

La-Tee-Da confusingly applies two names to each of their fragrances (further confounding frustrated customer’s web searches when they discontinue a particular scent). The second scent my wife bought me is called “Grass Roots” or “Freshly Cut Clover,” and has a fresh, clean, meadow-like scent to it. It is pleasing and reminds me of our first years of marriage. I have tried over and over to find replacement bottles of this fragrance online, and I’ve tried to find a way to contact the company to see if they ever intend to manufacture that scent again, all to no avail. 

Last, I have a favorite scent of Glade Plug-In oil refills; Jasmine and White Rose. It is NOT a discontinued scent, so for all intents and purposes it really doesn’t belong in this list. However, the availability of this scent in our local retail centers is sporadic at best. Glade, like other companies in the scent industry, has the same habit of trying out new scents and scent combinations, altering slightly the perfume bill on newer versions of older models, and discontinuing scents arbitrarily. I will say, however, that Glade does a good job sticking to some of their old standards. Jasmine and White Rose appears from time-to-time locally and is listed as a currently available scent on their web site, but due to it’s unreliable availability in our area I include it on this list. 

This scent also has a personal significance to me because when our house was on the market and we first visited it, the realtor (or previous owner, not entirely sure on this) used this scent in the house. It is a clean and refreshing scent and not over-powering. I had forgotten about the scent until about three months ago when my wife came home from the store with some new Glade replacement cartridges When we plugged them in I was immediately aware that we had found the specific scent I remembered from when we bought our house, one I had searched for unsuccessfully on prior occasions.  

My concern with these hard-to-find scents is the psychology of loss and grief; that I may have forever lost the ability to smell them ever again when they are discontinued. I know on a scale of world problems this one is not earth-shattering, but when you grow attached to something and it holds significance for you, it is troublesome to see a thing discontinued or capriciously modified for the sake of re-igniting a product line.

Part of me accepts defeat in losing these products with the understanding that if I ever smell those scents again someday, their memory will be far more powerful through extended absence than they ever could be with continued use. Another part of me wants to give up on commercially produced fragrances all together and develop my own sustainable fragrance line so I can recreate my own favorites whenever I like. 

I suppose the moral of the story is to appreciate what you have when you have it, and appreciate the memory of it when it is gone. That, and if you like something enough, stock up on it; you may never see it in stores again. 

I am a Mel Tormé fan. I have a great boxed set collection of his music that spans his entire career, a collection I have listened to for about a decade now. It is an excellent collection because it is largely organized in chronological order through his years as a crooner.

What I like most about this boxed set is the classic songs I have learned of and grown to love which I otherwise would never have discovered. One such song is an old 1937 Allie Wrubel tune called “Gone With the Wind” (not to be confused with the book/movie of the same title). If you aren’t familiar with the tune, it is a slow, melancholic ballad about love lost (lyrics by Herb Magidson). Mel’s version features a distinctive and memorable guitar part that starts right at the opening of the song, and continues throughout the piece.

Here is one version of Mel singing the tune (though not the track featured in the boxed set, and in my opinion not as good).

The reason I am writing about this song is because I started to notice an interesting jazz equivalent of an “Easter Egg” (material hidden in places where intrepid fans can find it, if they look hard enough) related to this song.  About a year ago when I was listening to Mel’s boxed set on shuffle a live version of “That Old Black Magic” turned up and I was vaguely paying attention to the widely recognizable tune.

Before I go any further, I need to acknowledge that there is nothing novel about jazz musicians “sampling” other melodies by inserting musical melodies from one song into another. It is part of the improvisational DNA of the jazz music genre  - even as far back as Mel’s early days. It is considered standard practice for a musician to “riff” a different tune while taking a solo in a live performance.

So there I sat at my work desk grinding away at some form of paperwork when  about two minutes and forty-five seconds later a subliminal melody simmered to the surface of my brain – I recognized that Mel’s piano player was improvising the guitar line from “Gone With the Wind” into “That Old Black Magic!” Agreed, it isn’t that recognizable a melody, unless you’ve heard the song a few times that is.

I stopped what I was doing, and backed the track up to be sure. There it was – plain as day. The piano player must be a fan, I assumed. I wanted to tell someone, and then I realized this isn’t that remarkable to anyone else, so I just chocked it up to Mel Tormé fanaticism.

Then yesterday I was listening to Mel’s boxed set on Shuffle again (I do this frequently, as you may have deduced) when that striking melody appeared again . . . in a different song! Yes, this time it was about thirty-five seconds into “I Let a Song Go Out of My Heart.” The same haunting, melancholic melody thrown in – by the horn section this time – where I wasn’t expecting it (and where I had, until recently, never noticed.)

That’s it, I thought, this is a conspiracy. The melody showing up as a riff in another song once is indicative of no real coincidence or anything more significant than your typical jazz musician goofing around. Twice? That’s different. This has to be this guys favorite song, and he’s repeatedly throwing it in where it doesn’t normally belong.

Feeling no lack of smugness in my discovery I decided I would listen to Mel all day long just to see if I noticed the riff anywhere else – no small chore considering how subtle some of these improvisations are, how much music I had to listen to, and how much theme and variation can distort even the most recognizable melody. I listened to Mel for seven of the eight hours I was at work and sometime in the afternoon it happened. The melodic theme from ”Gone With the Wind”  showed up in one more song – “It Happened in Monterrey” at the one minute, forty second mark.

I need to do more research (with the liner notes from the boxed set, I imagine):

• Is this the same person arranging each of these tracks?
• Why is this melody (the guitar line from the song) only featured in Mel Tormé’s version of “Gone With the Wind?”
• Are there other songs he recorded that feature this signature trademark?
• Was this an inside joke or other form of subtle acknowledgement to someone? (past lover, the songwriter, the lyricist, a band member, or perhaps just Mel’s love for the tune?)

Since I haven’t written about a humorous situation in a while I thought I would relate some details from last week. A preliminary disclaimer – no Leopolds were harmed in the making of today’s blog. Well, at least not permanently.

A Touchy Situation

Tina’s mother is in town this week to help watch the boys while Oisin hangs out at home and Brom attends Safety Village. What’s Safety Village, you ask? Great question. If you read their literature you will learn it is a week-long safety course for early elementary students to learn about fire, bike, home, stranger, and general safety tips. If you ask Brom what Safety Village is, he’ll tell you it’s a great place to find a bead on the floor and stick it up your nose thus requiring the fire department’s assistance in removing the foreign object.

Irony alert – this is a safety camp and my son is inserting objects into his nose within minutes of arriving at the camp. Let’s go deeper: Tina’s visited the emergency room for inserting objects into her nose (rubber bands) when she was a child. Sigh.

Can I Get Fries With That?

Our grill is a three-burner stainless steel behemoth with a side-burner for heating glazes or some other potted item. It is big. We didn’t buy our grill, it came with the house (nice extra, no?). In general we’re pretty happy with it, but it does tend to cook a bit uneven, and there is a giant gap for ventilation below the hinge on the back. Wednesday night we were going to grill burgers for dinner, so Tina lighted the grill (she’s becoming quite the griller) and we were letting it warm up whilst we prepared the burgers and trimmings. Since it was so hot outside our glass patio door was closed when I noticed the billowing smoke issuing forth from the portion of the deck designated for grilling.

I ran to the door and outside where I noticed flames creeping out of the sides, bottom and front of the grill. I immediately turned the burners off, and dragged the grill away from the side of the house. The fire continued to burn as I requested the fire extinguisher from the kitchen (see why every home needs one of these?).

After dousing the fire the first thing I noticed was that while it didn’t burn them, the heat from the flames did release the shaping on our vinyl siding. The two pieces still cover our home securely, but they look a little distorted. The next thing I discovered was that Tina was refusing to use that grill ever again, stating that it wasn’t safe and she didn’t want to eat off a grill I had previously doused with a fire extinguisher. Three days of intensive research on the internet, we bought a new grill from Ace Hardware and cooked hot dogs without incident on Saturday night.

The Joke’s On . . . Me

Later Saturday night we were cleaning the house (vacuuming, kitchen counters, bathrooms, etc.) when I came across a Mylar balloon my coworkers had brought me for my birthday. It had been sitting on our piano since May 5th and had only recently shown signs of deflating. Since I was already going to throw it away, I simply had to make use of the opportunity to inhale helium and speak like a chipmunk. Here was my plan (hint, operative word here is “plan”): I would bite a tiny hole in the balloon, inhale the helium and walk around the entry hall to Tina, who was cleaning in the kitchen, and I would say something like “Don’t you think we should throw this away?” in an unexpectedly high-pitched voice. Funny, right?

I grabbed the balloon, nibbled a hole in the corner and began to inhale the musty-helium-flavored gas. Here’s what happened from what I recall. You’ll have to ask Tina for her version yourself:

*Huff*

Hmm, I wonder if that will be enough helium to make my voice sound funny. Can’t speak aloud, that will give away my funny joke. I should try to inhale some more.

*Huff*

There’s not a lot of helium in these balloons, I should probably inhale at least half of it.

*Huff*

Shoot, it’s almost gone now, might as well finish it off, right?

*Huff*

There, helium is almost gone, and . . . wait, what was I going to say again? Oh yah, something funny about getting rid of the balloon. I sure left that balloon on the piano a long time. Hmm, long time, we haven’t tuned that piano in a long time either. Boy it’s taking a long time to get around this corner.  Wow, my legs and arms feel like bungee cords.

(While walking)BOING. BOING. Ha ha ha!

Oop – there’s Tina, time for the punch line, holy cow, this is going to be funny.

(in a squeaky voice)

“Don’t you think it’s about time we got rid of this thing?”

Hmm, that sheet music on the piano was for one of my favorite songs. (singing in my head) Da tee dum, I think I like singing that song. I should mow the lawn after church if there’s time. I need to yawn.

The next thing I recall is Tina in the patio doorway asking why I was sitting on the floor. I was looking at her trying to comprehend 1) why would she ask me such a thing and 2) why it would be suspect to sit on a floor, it seemed completely natural to me. This is about the time that Tina exploded with laughter. Amidst her fits of cackles I could barely make out questions like, “Did you pass out?” and “Did you inhale all that helium?”

That’s when I started to realize that my current attitude (basically flat on my back in the entry hall clutching an empty balloon with a smug grin on my face) was not part of my master plan. The pieces started falling into place – I had huffed a considerable portion of helium to play a joke on my wife and had unintentionally knocked myself out cold.

I later discovered a couple bumps on my head and for some reason my left forearm is really sore and bruised, but the best side-effect of my prank was making Tina laugh so hard she had to run to the restroom. Ha ha, joke’s on you! Betcha she didn’t expect that one coming!

I am hoping for this to be a good old-fashioned boring week to balance out the strangeness of the last one.

We went to Tulsa, OK, for our spring break this year. We saw animals at the zoo, played on airplanes, threw Frisbee golf discs, spotted a dead armadillo, rode our bikes, watched some of the first round of the NCAA mens basketball tournament and had a great time with family. Check out the pictures in our gallery (over to your right) or on our Flickr site.

Penguin Photobomb

The newest resident at our house is furry and cuddly. Her name was Sweet Tea at the shelter, but we’ve renamed her Simhumukha, or “Muka” for short, already. She’s 2 years old and is adapting quickly to our household. She likes it when we brush her and she loves to play with the fleece string toy. She’s still exploring our house and growing more comfortable by the hour.

A picture taken at the shelter, we'll add more later . . .

. . . I get tired of winter and begin pining for warmer climes and weather that I know is yet months away. This in no way marks me as unique. Conversations on the topic usually conclude with something along the lines of, “But I appreciate the other seasons more because of dreadful weather like this.”

It is cliché and needless to say that winter in the Upper Midwest can bring your spirits down; with limited fresh air, shorter daylight hours, the thrill of the holidays passed, I find my daydreams focused on all the activities with which I know I shall fill my spring and summer free time. This leads me to a topic near and dear to me: Ragtime.

It is a brief story, and a seasonally significant one that clarifies this odd connection. When I was growing up my family would attend the yearly show choir performance at the high school (called Showtime, for you non-Pretzels reading this). Attending the show was one of the highlights of the start of springtime since the show always falls around the beginning-middle of April.

My family often ate dinner at a popular Italian restaurant in town, Cannova’s Pizza right before attending the show. We ate there so frequently before such shows that it sort of became a family tradition, even though we ate at the restaurant on several other occasions. What is significant about eating at Cannova’s before the spring show is that sometimes the weather in April permitted seating on their porch with open windows and a warm spring breeze. One of the proprietors of Cannova’s, Patrick Beckman, is a talented composer and pianist. Located in the main dining room is a grand piano at which Mr. Beckman would sit and serenade customers with show tunes, classical favorites and – you guessed it – Scott Joplin’s ragtime music.

I hadn’t considered the pairing (pasta/ragtime/springtime) significant until I reached high school. I had become a frequent customer in the Compact Disc section of the Public Library and discovered their abundant collection of Joplin discs. I began my education and deeper appreciation for the composer and his genre at a young age and it lasts until today.

Because of my experience of hearing this music while enjoying dinner on the porch of a restaurant while the first signs of spring blossomed nearby, the operant conditioning set in quickly and imagine I will forever associate Joplin’s music with springtime.

So as I sit in my office on an overcast Wednesday morning in January, my speakers issue forth the syncopated rhythms of years gone by and I am dreaming of warmer temperatures and relief from the blustering cold. Also, I could go in for a house salad, a steaming plate of tomato-basil-cream sauce over angel hair pasta and some bread sticks.

—————-
Now playing: Scott Joplin – Swipsey
via FoxyTunes

Here’s photographic evidence of the madness that is our son’s addiction to Egg Nog.

There once lived a boy named Oisin
Who craved Christmas drinks thick as cream.
As his thirst went unquench’d
for ten months he’d lament, 
“Give me more nog or I’ll scream!”

As you can see, having an Irish name neither improves my skill of limerick writing, nor does it improve the rhyme scheme. Sigh.

The following post is based on actual events.  Due to the graphic nature, reader discretion is advised.

Last Friday my wife was busy putting the final preparations in place for a big Halloween party for a dozen kids the following day.  We had a fun evening filled with playing outside, some video games, Little Caesar’s pizza (I still get nostalgic at the taste of Crazy Bread) and the boys had each had a glass of “Halloween Egg Nog.” I agree that it is a strange concept, but my kids are crazy for the ‘nog.

I had just put the boys in bed and was ready to look up some great Halloween thriller movies to get us in the spirit of the holiday and thought we should start with the mediocre “Haunting in Connecticut,” which was about a 7/10 for visual fright, if a bit predictable and lacking in the plot arena.

Next I finally convinced Tina to watch Paranormal Activity. I really thought she would have been more scared of this film than the first, but I guess gore and darkened houses scare her more than the inexplicable happenings of demon possession.

By the time we were finished with the two films it was after midnight – abnormally late for the two of us. No sooner had we settled in bed when we both fell asleep in exhaustion. I worried we would toss and turn to the slightest provocation based on the content of the final movie, but succumbed to sleep rather easily.

I won’t say my sleep was peaceful, but I also wouldn’t call it fitful. I had animated dreams, but nothing terrifying. At one point I turned over in bed and though I heard one of the boys get up to go to the bathroom.

I was just about to fall asleep again when I heard what sounded like someone pouring a pitcher of water on the floor. Immediately I heard Oisin yell something unintelligible and heard the sound of retching.

My mind started racing. The first thoughts flooded in too quickly to comprehend, and as my body sprang into action my brain slowed down; am I really awake? What was that noise? Are the boys OK? Is someone  . . . no, someTHING in the house?

Then Oisin yelled out again and this time we clearly heard him say, “BROM is PUKING ON ME!!!”

I ran to their bedroom and flicked on their light. Sure enough, Brom (who had been sleeping in the top bunk of the bunk beds for the last month) had been seated at the top of his ladder, vomiting down the side of their beds. To my immediate horror I noticed that the ladder was covered in wretched smelling vomit. But that was not all.

Most of the vomit had pooled in a twelve-inch-wide pool at the base of the ladder where it was continuing to accumulate as it dripped from the rungs above. In addition, the force with which Brom had expelled the evil, combined with the attitude of the wooden ladder rungs had served to create an effect not unlike a broadcast spreader – providing a splatter of vomit throughout the entire room.

Vomit clung to the dresser, to the walls, to stuffed animals, to the book shelf, to the lower bunk (and yes, on Oisin). There was vomit on the door to the room. There were big chunks of semi-digested pizza, there was an odor of spoiled milk (hallelujah for Halloween Egg Nog), and there were invisible chunks of vomit – the kind you can only detect while walking through it in bare feet – spread at random intervals over the floor.

I stood stunned for what seemed like a lifetime admiring the repulsive, yet adroit way in which Brom had cast out his inner demon. Suddenly I was aware of two things, Tina was behind me unaware of the totality of the situation and Oisin was hysterical. I don’t know how long I stood there assessing the situation.

I began to recall all the lessons learned in my years cleaning up similar messes in the residence halls and “Biohazard Kieran” sprang into action. We extracted Oisin through the opening at the foot of the bed, careful to avoid the contaminated stuffed animals there. Once we wiped him down we set him up in the guest room with temporary lodging.

Next, we dowsed Brom with Holy Water and laid him out to dry on a towel in the hallway. I couldn’t keep myself from stopping to stare at the catastrophe of vomit throughout their room. There is no way any five-year-old could cause that much mess, yet there it was.

I high-tailed it to the garage to haul our large-capacity Shop-Vac to their room where I began the odoriferous task of extracting their carpeting. Let me paint a mental image for you:

Man in his early thirties crouches barefoot wearing only boxer briefs in bedroom filled with books, toys, stuffed animals, and vomit. He gingerly steps around splatters of detritus as he slowly maneuvers his loud, smelly appliance throughout the room.

Just in case you wondered, stirring up all that vomit with the vacuum cleaner didn’t do anything to control the foul stench. Once the first layer was up, I covered ground zero with baking soda as a desiccant, and opened the window an inch, turning on the whole-house fan to chimney the odor out of the room.

Brom was feeling better almost immediately and we put him on the floor of the guest bedroom for the rest of the night. After about 1 hour I turned off the fan, returned the cruciform to its normal location, and crawled back to bed, unable to clear my sinuses of the dairy-acid smell.

In summary; Last Friday night (and early Saturday morning) I learned that I go in more for supernatural thrills and Tina reacts more to gore. I also learned that neither of these facts is in any way helpful when decontaminating evil from the deep-pile of modern carpeting at 2 in the morning.

Epilogue:

The room smelled fine by the morning, and once we had cleaned all the sheets and sanitized the woodwork the boys moved back in. Brom is now on the bottom bunk once again.

Hey everyone.

Long time no blog. I realized that in the past couple months I have spent more time deleting spam user accounts from this site versus posting new content.

Our life of Iowan domesticity continues with the regular autumnal activities; we’ve wandered corn mazes, bought apples, raked leaves, placed decorations and chosen costumes. For the historical record I note that Oisin will be Robin Hood and Brom went with a video game reference this year and is dressing as Link from Legend of Zelda. Grandma McCready made both costumes and they  are fantastic.

We have also worked on the house a bit – bought some art, installed a furnace humidifier and had the piano tuned. It is through activities like this that I feel a deeper, more intimate sense of belonging in our home. In fact, it was on the day of the piano tuning and furnace work that I had an interesting experience which pushed this “sense of home” into focus.

I left work early on a Friday to meet the service man who would install our new hardware when I was seated in the kitchen reading work emails, and enjoying a cool fall breeze facilitated by opening both the patio door to the back and main door to the front of our house. I had been measuring the afternoon in this posture for the better part of two hours, and was dimly aware that a couple I had never seen before was walking past our newly displayed Halloween decorations in our front yard.

The couple appeared to be youngish, nearing 30, and seemed to be keenly interested in our house and its decoration. In the instant I saw them walk by I gathered all this information and dismissed it as a young couple on a walk through a neighborhood they’d never ventured before. It was when I saw this couple double-back the other direction and stare towards the front door that I began to think that something else was going on.

As the couple approached the house I walked to the front door ready to answer questions about the house, the Halloween decorations, or some other inquiry – perhaps about the neighborhood. I opened the door and offered my handshake by way of introduction to the male. He stated his name and before my brain had a chance to make the recognition, he explained that he had grown up in this very house.

Immediately a host of ideas and questions gathered in my head, and all I could think to do was invite them in and take them on a tour of the house. I knew from when we purchased the home that only one other family had lived in the dwelling – I even knew a little bit about my guests hobbies and his past, though he couldn’t have known that yet.

I walked he and his wife through each room and he commented on our decor choices, and on how his family had not spent much time in certain rooms, and loads of time in others. He explained how his dad did most all the wood work in the home, and how his sister put her bottom through an upstairs wall, and he a broomstick through our bedroom door. He explained other idiosyncrasies we had often pondered – such as the high-voltage power lines in the basement which used to service two pottery kilns – how each afternoon children from the nearby elementary school would come create pottery with his mother in the pottery studio that was our basement.

I shared with him how we discovered 89 of his BMX trophies of varying size in the attic when we moved in and that the Realtor had disposed of them all save one which I held onto in our garage, and which he accepted as I offered it to him as a small reconciliation for the unceremonious way in which the others had been disposed.

We wandered around the exterior and he shared his love for the backyard tree; a grandiose ash which practically begs to be climbed with its uncannily well-placed, horizontal arms.

Soon we struggled for additional things to discuss and he and his wife politely excused themselves, and returned to their vehicle. I sat back down at the kitchen table and that room took on a new look. A look I remembered from the first time I walked through the house and noticed the outdated wooden corner guard here, the slate tiling there, the wood-paneled family room, the spacious view out the back window.

It felt to good to be disrupted in my afternoon work and in my view of home. As a live-in staff member at the university for the better part of a decade I grew used to uprooting and changing my home every year or two. I know now that I will live at this address for some time, at least that is the plan. I hope I never forget that this was another family’s home, and I hope that our time is as meaningful here so that one day my children will want to return and share their stories of dings here, scratches there.

Perhaps they’ll share their stories with Tina and I in our old age, maybe with another home owner settling down and taking root in this house. Whatever the case, I feel a sense of belonging and I’m glad we are home.