Running On Time
Posted by Margaret on Jul 27, 2010
Yesterday I came across a coupon that expired last month. It had been good for a full year and was worth $8.00, but I didn’t know we had it. The title read, “NICTD CONFIRMATION OF A LATE TRAIN.” Google let me know that NICTD stands for Northern Indiana Commuter Transportation District, and it was clear what had happened.
Nate and I moved from Illinois to Michigan on June 11 of last year. The very next morning he drove to Michigan City, Indiana, and boarded what would become his daily commuter train for Chicago’s Loop. Although the ride was twice the length of his Illinois commute, he didn’t seem to mind. Grateful to have finally sold our Chicago house after four years of trying, the longer travel time to work didn’t bother him. That is, until it got too long.
Although Nate often bragged about the punctual Chicago trains, apparently the NICTD didn’t have the same “track record.” Many late trains coaxed them to put a coupon system in place that offered passengers a pay-back for extreme tardiness. Along the side of the coupon it reads, “60+MINUTES LATE.” Now that’s a woefully overdue train.
The cross-shaped punches in Nate’s coupon indicate he was on board this “at least 60+ minutes late” train on his fourth commuting day, returning to Michigan after work. With his back in severe pain by then and his body suffering from hidden pancreatic cancer, he must have been beyond miserable while the train sat on a track neither here nor there.
I can tell from Nate’s oversized handwriting on the coupon that he was also angry. He did follow instructions, though, to “Please print clearly.” Well, at least the “Please print” part. I don’t know why he never redeemed it for the price of his train ticket. Although $8.00 wasn’t big potatoes, he was probably going after it on principle. When someone contracts to be on time, they should be, and each ticket purchased is a mini-contract.
Nate was always on time. If he was late for anything, it was because I had something to do with it, an aggravation during our early years together. He was right to be punctual, and I was wrong to be late. But as married people learn to do when compromise doesn’t work, one partner gives in. And Nate did. I wish I’d tried harder to pull myself together.
But God was watching, appreciating Nate’s desire to be on time. I say that because God is never late, and we are to emulate him. He usually waits until we think he’s already late, but when he comes through, it’s spectacular. In this, he’s trying to teach us, teach me, it’s important to be punctual.
Those who’ve mastered punctuality on earth have already stockpiled some treasure in heaven. Nate gets double credit for his efforts, because he sacrificed his own desires to put the interests of his wife ahead of his own. But both “early people” and “late people” get some time-related perks in paradise. The “earlies” will never again have to struggle with the “lates”, and the “lates” will always have the time they need.
“I trusted in thee, O Lord. I said, ‘Thou art my God. My times are in thy hand’.” (Psalm 31:14-15a)
Skewed Priorities
Posted by Margaret on Nov 13, 2009
The little cottage where Nate and I moved last June is a home we’ve owned for nine years. Although it’s always been winterized, we used it mostly in the summer because of the large, relatively empty beach nearby. When finances became tight, we put our Chicago house on the market. But when it didn’t sell, we put the summer house up for sale as well, continuing to hope one or maybe even both would sell.
After four years, the house in Chicago finally sold, and we found ourselves moving to Michigan to live full time. We considered it an adventure for two sixty-somethings and figured we could return to the Chicago area if we missed it too much.
Nate continued to work in Chicago’s Loop, commuting around the bottom of Lake Michigan via the South Shore train line. He found the long ride pleasant and full of interesting characters. I admired the ease with which he made this major change after living in the Chicago area for 37 years. But in his own words, coming home each evening to our humble Michigan cottage was “coming home to paradise.”
Nate and I often talked about improving the Michigan house. It was needy in many categories, and we had some good ideas, but we were so busy with his work and my unpacking that not much was accomplished toward that end over the summer. “Let’s wait til fall,” I said. “I’ll get the kids to rip out the musty old living room carpeting we’ve hated for years, and I’ll swing a paint brush in several rooms.”
But when fall came, cancer came too. Thoughts of renovating went out the window, because once Nate became sick, none of that was important. Besides, we had all we could handle just keeping up with doctor appointments, radiation treatments, pharmacy visits and medicine doses.
Today at lunch time, several of the boys asked me what they could do to help. Before I could answer, 15 month old Skylar walked into the room with a flaming red rash on one cheek. She’d been frolicking with Jack the dog on the living room carpet but hadn’t cried out, so no one could figure out how her cheek had become injured.
Then Hans said, “That looks just like the rash Nicholas had a few days ago.”
After further investigating, we all agreed the carpeting was to blame. Jack had had a major bout with fleas recently, and we’d responded with a vet appointment and his recommended chemicals. Maybe it was just the fact that our carpeting was nearly 40 years old, but within the hour, the boys were cutting it into chunks and dragging it out of the house.
I’d been asking them to rip up the rumpled, stained carpet for several years, but there was always a reason why “it wasn’t a good day” to do it. Today it got done on the dime because of two rashy baby cheeks.
Life is all about setting priorities. We line them up and then obey the list. When Nate and I became aware of his cancer, existing priorities were tossed aside as new ones came into their places. Home improvements fell to the bottom of the list while Nate’s care rose to the top. Occasional family visits were no longer good enough. Instead, the family came together around the clock. Focused time as a married couple had been sprinkled here and there throughout our days but then switched to becoming constant. There’s nothing like a health crisis to rearrange skewed priorities.
Interestingly, by the hour of Nate’s death at 7:35 pm on November 3rd, every item on the revised to-do list had been checked off. Each task had been completed.
Why does it take a crisis to force the right priorities? All of us know what they are, even before a crisis hits. We just don’t line them up until then.
“We spend our years as a tale that is told. [Lord], teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom.” (Psalm 90:9b & 12)
Is there a history buff in the crowd?
Posted by Margaret on Sep 20, 2009
Our realtor called again. “Let’s brainstorm for a way to set your house apart from the others that are for sale. Can you think of anything?”
“Well,” I hesitated, wondering if what I was going to say was positive or negative, “it’s almost 100 years old.”
“Ok then,” she said. “I know a man at the newspaper who might publish a story about that. It’ll be free publicity. Could you write it?”
Many years previously, an elderly gentleman, hunched over with osteoporosis, rang our doorbell and introduced himself as “the little boy who helped build this house.” (He was in his 90s at the time.) I welcomed him inside, and as he paced through the rooms, he dictated the history of our (his) home. I knew I could write a good story for the paper. A shortened version appears below.
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In the year 2009, this house will celebrate its 100th birthday. Built in 1909 by a local farmer, 103 Creek Court had a rural address and fronted on a narrow dirt road that eventually became today’s eight-lane Palatine Road. The farmer owned one square mile of land and operated a dairy farm, milking 100 cows by hand twice a day.
The original farmhouse had a living room, kitchen and bedroom on the main floor with three bedrooms upstairs. These were closed off by a door and left unheated during the winter. With several additions, the house grew to six bedrooms, three baths and five other rooms.
Back in the early 1900’s, the kitchen had a dry sink without even a hand pump for water. Before the first well was dug, the family got its water from the nearby creek, for which today’s Creek Court is named. Food was cooked on a swing-hook in the fireplace.
The main dairy barn sat just across the current driveway. During the 1930’s, economic tragedy struck this farm when the herd shared grass under a fence with a neighbor’s cows, who had hoof and mouth disease.
All of the cows became infected, making their milk unusable, which sealed their fate and that of the farm. The farmer dug a massive hole next to the milking barn, herded them into it and shot them all. Interestingly, when builders began digging for the foundation of our next door neighbor’s house in 1979, they ran into this grave of cow bones and halted excavation until the mystery was solved.
Recent gardeners at 103 Creek Court have dug up square-head nails, iron wagon wheels and the remains of old farming equipment buried in the concrete of the front steps. An antique hay rake, once pulled by a team of horses, was also on the property.
Used as an office by the developer of the current neighborhood, the old farm house was slated for demolition in 1980. However, once the other half-acre lots were sold and built, the developer decided to renovate 103 Creek Court and let it be the house on the rise that had been standing longer than all the others… nearly 100 years.
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The realtor and I hoped to find a buyer interested in history, but only time would tell.
Too good to be true
Posted by Margaret on Sep 10, 2009
It had been three months since we’d given up trying to sell our home “by owner,” two months since we’d signed again with a real estate company, and two weeks since we’d signed a contract with real live buyers. As I busied myself organizing, packing and marveling that others wanted to help me, I thought about our buyers working on the flip side of the contract with their realtor and mortgage company. Both moves, theirs and ours, would happen soon.
When our real estate agent called, I assumed it would be to give us a firm moving date. “I’ve studied the situation thoroughly,” she confided, choosing her words carefully, “and my analysis is that the family buying your home can’t afford it. They’re having trouble finding a mortgage, because they’re really not qualified. Also, they haven’t sold their own home yet. And I know for certain they can’t play the two-mortgage game.”
My heart beat picked up speed and sounded like the flutter of wings carrying off the contract, along with our hope for a financial realignment. Having heard her perfectly, I said, “What?”
“I’m wondering if you and Nate will voluntarily let your buyers out of the contract, although legally you don’t have to.”
“You mean lose them completely?” I asked, my voice cracking. We’d worked hard and waited long to get this far.
“Yes, if you’re willing. Like I said, you don’t have to, but it would be a nice thing to do for this young couple.” Our realtor, by now a friend, had a sweet, southern disposition and the lovely accent to go with it. She waited patiently for my response.
“Let me call Nate,” I said, trying to think straight.
Her advice didn’t make good business sense. If we didn’t sell, she couldn’t get her commission. But even as I was dialing Nate, I had the sinking feeling we would end up doing what she suggested.
By the end of that day, the deal had evaporated, and along with it, our hope for financial salvation.
“Don’t lose heart,” our realtor said. “I’ve got many other interested parties.”
By this time, our friend Sue’s successful system of packing had put me on the fast track of eliminating and concentrating. I’d been emptying closets and shelves throughout the house like a woman possessed. Our 188 photo albums had been packed and stacked and were ready for the moving van.
“Stop packing,” Nate instructed. “They say a house shows better if it looks lived-in. I guess we’re back to square one.”
And so my efforts screeched to a halt. Would it be a few weeks? A month? Another torturous year? The situation seemed dismal… that is, until we told our kids the sale had fallen through. They saw this as a reprieve from the torture of a move.
Louisa took her letter off the wall and began to grin again.
“Oh Lord, I have to pack!”
Posted by Margaret on Sep 6, 2009
When the reality of our upcoming move finally hit me, it was like a tidal wave with water up the nose and an undertow that swamped me.
From my prayer journal:
“Lord, Today I have five hours at home to work on organizing and throwing stuff away. All I feel like doing is throwing up. I’m not kidding about the nausea. Where do I even start? Basement? Attic? Garage? Crawl space? Book shelves? I can’t do it alone. Also, I need a handyman, a carpenter, a plumber, an electrician and a landscaper. Who are they? When can they come? How can we pay them? Oh Lord, please prioritize this mess!”
And under I went, swirling in a wave of confusion and chaos, wondering if I’d be able to make it through to order and stability. I called out to God often, whenever panic started rising, which was every hour.
One day I walked into the house with several cardboard boxes, and the phone was ringing. It was my friend Sue from Colorado. “Don and I have cleared two days, and we’re flying to Chicago to help you do whatever needs doing. Don will bring his tools.” Now it was my turn to cry. God had heard my questions, and Sue and Don were his answers.
They arrived toting overnight bags full of work clothes and tools, as promised. After Sue asked, “What needs doing?” it was obvious from my stuttering that I didn’t know how to begin.
“We’ll begin in the basement,” she said with firmness, marching toward the stairs. I followed, quietly whimpering with gratitude. “Get me a marker, a roll of tape, three black garbage bags and those boxes you collected. We’ll start in one corner and work out from there.”
As I stood staring at her in wonder, Sue continued. “One bag will be for trash, black because once something goes inside, you won’t be allowed to see it again. The second bag will be for give-aways. You’ll be downsizing, so you won’t be able to keep everything. The third bag will be for keepers. When that bag is full, we’ll transfer its contents to a box, label it, tape it and stack it.”
I felt my body go limp with relief. Sue had become my life preserver, rescuing me from going under for the third time. As we worked, we talked and laughed. When we came to a questionable item, such as a science project one of the kids had worked hard on and received a blue ribbon for, I began to sink again. “We can’t throw that away!” I whined. But Sue squared her shoulders and said, “Get your camera. We’ll take a picture of it, then get rid of it.” For each “no-I-can’t” dilemma, Sue had a “yes-we-can” idea.
Meanwhile, Don was eliminating items from my “Handyman List” the way a bee bee gun shoots cans off a fence: done, done, done. Slow toilets ran faster, sticky doors opened, a stubborn computer obeyed, rotten house siding morphed into new, malfunctioning light fixtures shone, and 23 other things.
In the basement, Sue and I gradually transformed piles of debris into neatly stacked, labeled boxes ready for our move. Garbage cans were loaded and my mini-van was filled with bags for Good Will. The tidal wave had calmed.
As Nate and I stood at the door waving good-bye to Sue and Don, the phone rang. It was my sister. She was coming over the next day to help me “with anything that needs doing.” God and friends were bringing us through.