Stepping into Others' Worlds

We've been looking for temporary rental property, which isn't very easy to find around here. Don's company has some properties they've bought up, to eventually mine under them, so we checked into that possibility. This past weekend he got a key, and off we went, to take a look.

The smell hit us as soon as we stepped inside. Years of must and dirt and who knows what else, but I had hope against hope that some serious steam cleaning would take care of it.

The kitchen drawers had dead bugs in them, and fronts of cabinets were swinging to and fro. There was no dishwasher or microwave, but a serviceable stove and refrigerator.

The fairy decals on the cabinet fronts and the walls told me a woman had indeed lived there at some time, and she'd tried to make it pretty. There was a 'tub' that really wasn't a tub, but rather something you could roll a wheelchair into? You definitely could not bathe.

The bedrooms were small and less than beautiful but would do, assuming we could get rid of the smell in the carpet. The hand-painted mural of a castle on one bedroom wall told me a child had lived there for awhile.

The basement had little streams of water trailing across the floor, a washer and dryer sat in a corner, but there was no plug for the dryer. Cobwebs and dark corners told me I wouldn't be going down there much after dark.

The house sat next to a very busy highway, with a steep yard, and next door somebody's dog, chained to the front door, had worn the yard to smooth dirt.

I told Don, "we can clean it up, I can paint, we'll get someone in to clean the carpet, and we can make it work." He told me, "Bev, no. It won't do. It's just too much work, and we don't have to do this. We can find something else."

So we drove away and he handed the key back in. But two things stuck with me, first that someone had indeed lived there, as it was. I know there are people in this country who would be grateful to live there, because it's better than what they have now. That thought has stayed with me for days now. How easily we forget the bubble we live in, and how many out there have little or nothing. My home, which is typical mid-America, would seem opulent to many.

Second, Don told me later that when I told him we could make it work, he realized he'd married someone made of stout stuff. That I would have gone in and worked and made it better.

Maybe I need to go back and thank my parents for raising me in less than perfect surroundings much of the time I was growing up. I did tell him it was the highest compliment he's ever given me.