One of the many worries I had when my husband died was how to take care of the house. I’ve had the house for 23 years and have managed to have very little to do with the upkeep and maintenance beyond cleaning and decorating. I managed to learn almost no home maintenance skills. I did help with the basement remodel and kitchen remodel, but my skills fell mostly in the demolition arena. I can smash things up and haul those smashed things out, but there’s almost nothing else useful I could do.
Even after my husband had his stroke, he could answer questions for me or tell me who to call. When the sprinkler system had a problem, he told me exactly where to look for the issue. I took pictures of what I saw, showed him the pictures, and he told me what to do.
When the security system had a glitch, again, he talked me through figuring out the issue and calling someone to fix it.
After my husband’s stroke, I read Abigail Thomas’s memoir, A Three Dog Life, about living alone after her husband has an accident that makes it impossible for her to care for him. At the time, I was optimistic that my husband had many years ahead of him, and I shuddered thinking of Thomas taking care of her house alone.
A large part of my first few nights as a widow involved sitting in the house in fear of something going wrong. I didn’t know who I would call, what I would do, how I would afford whatever needed to be done. Although I loved the house because it reflected Tom’s sensibility and made me feel close to him—so many of the decorating choices had been made by him, he had a hand in choosing almost all the artwork, and we had remodeled the basement together—I was also afraid of it.
Soon after he died, something went wrong with the macerator in the basement. As soon as I realized the problem was with the macerator, I remembered Tom saying, “As long as nothing ever goes wrong with the macerator, we’ll be ok.” It was nearly 24 hours before anyone could come out to look at it, partly because it took me a while to figure out who to call and how to explain what had happened. Finally, a plumber came out and assured me it was actually an easy fix.
In the 2 ½ years that Tom’s been gone, I’ve learned a few skills. Just a few. One of the most important skills is knowing who to call. I often call my stepson first. After I explain the problem to him, I usually say, “Who should I call?” He always has an answer.
As I said a few weeks ago, I also read How Your House Works by Charlie Wing, which helped me a lot mostly by de-mystifying a few things. Wing describes ten aspects of a house that need care and maintenance, and for me, going from worrying about an infinite number of things to only ten was a huge relief.
The most impactful thing I’ve done, though, is change how I think about the house. For most of the time that Tom has been dead, I’ve thought of the house as a thing to fear, worry about, be mystified by, and spend money on. Over the summer, I started thinking of my house in terms of something I have a relationship with.
That subtle shift has completely changed the way I think about things breaking, maintenance, and the like. It helps me notice that I take care of the house and she takes care of me. Yes, I’ve decided my house is female and her name is Eleanor. I say good morning and good night to her. When she makes a funny sound, I ask her what she needs, just like I do to my dogs when they make a noise I don’t understand.
Thinking of my relationship with Eleanor makes me feel like we’re in this together. We both miss Tom, but we must move forward without him. I appreciate that she mostly keeps working and doesn’t complain. She’s a trooper, she’s nurturing, she’s strong. Like anyone getting on in years (she’s 110 years old), she needs some help from time to time, and I’m happy to help her when she needs it, just as I hope she’s happy to take care of me when I need it.
One of the way’s I continue to honor my husband is by taking good care of the house he put so much work into. Eleanor has become a trusted friend.
Such a touching and elegant tribute to your late husband, your home, and your creative resilience. Blessings to you – and Eleanor. Your shift, it seems to me, is more than subtle. It’s tectonic, yet graceful, and deeply inspiring. Best, Lisa