Carving Out

Carving Out Chapter 1

The problem with agreeing to buy a house sight unseen is that you have no idea what you’re getting into. That’s not to say that the photographs weren’t accurate. They were. But the beauty—and the downfall—of a photograph is that it takes a snapshot of a finite image. Studying photos is like looking out a foggy window. Five shadows, one right after the other, that run from the top of the window to the bottom look like a small flock of crows landing in the yard. But one swipe with a towel on the window reveals the shadows as snow falling from the pine trees under the heat of the new morning sun.

Such was my experience with the photos of my new house. I saw the stove and the countertop in the kitchen. But I missed the hole in the wall the size of a dinner plate eight inches out of the frame of the picture. I also made the mistake of assuming that the furniture and personal items in the photos would be gone long before I moved in. As it happens, it was part of the package.

I pull up to the driveway of my new house hours before the neighbors are stirring in their beds. I’m pleased to see the size of the garage. I use the automatic garage door opener the realtor has forwarded with the front door key and the house appraisal. The garage door opens but the attached light is burnt out. Dawn is thinking about breaking soon, so I use what little light there is to make out the shadows inside and park slowly. Stepping out of the car, I give my eyes a minute to adjust. I’m stunned by the amount of stuff in the garage. It looks as though I’ve parked in the wrong place.

There’s a snow-blower in the far left corner next to 3 differently angled shovels. A pegboard at the end of the garage shows a perfectly arranged set of wrenches, multiple drills, hammers, chisels—every tool I’ve ever imagined and some I can not only name but can’t fathom how to use. There’s a neatly folded tarp on a shelf that looks homemade. I don’t mean homemade like the bookshelf I made with my dad when I was 8, I mean homemade by someone who knew what they were doing.

I can’t imagine there are many of the same garage door openers; nonetheless, I’m leery to go inside. Considering I’m 5 hours from any place I’ve ever been before, I don’t have much choice. I open the door into the house.

It’s stiflingly hot and I peel my jacket off first thing. The kitchen looks like a throwback to the 70’s replete with orange and gold linoleum, an avocado green refrigerator, and a rotary phone that hasn’t seen a dust rag in at least a year. As I look around, I realize that the whole kitchen is furnished. There aren’t just a few things left after moving. This kitchen has everything in it from major appliances to, I notice as I whip open a drawer, a corkscrew from Kugler’s Wine and Fruit. What the hell?

It doesn’t matter that it’s 6 a.m. Pam, my realtor, has some serious explaining to do. I dial the number from memory and feel guilty for only a few seconds, until I see the pile of wood shavings ground into the carpet in the living room. On the eighth ring, a muzzy voice answers.

“’ello?”

“Pam?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“This is Clare. What have you gotten me into? You said there’d be a few things left in the house from…”

“What time is it?” She cuts off the beginning of my rampage.

“I don’t give a damn what time it is. I’ve walked into the twilight zone here! You told me I would need to pitch a few things when I got here. You didn’t tell me I’d be doing complete renovation. I wanted a house, not a project.”

“Calm down. There are just a few things inside that you can put to the curb.”

It’s good she can’t see my face. I wipe the beads of sweat from my upper lip and look around for the thermostat. “Have you been down here to the house, Pamela?”