Winter storms bring new appreciation for home

Someday, I imagine people of the Ozarks will look back on the January ice storms and take comfort, at least, in the lessons that were learned and the changes that were brought about as a result. No doubt city and utility officials will use the ice storms and the destruction left behind to determine what could be done differently – or better – should winter ever release its icy fury on us again.

As for me, there already have been many lessons, some spiritual, some philosophical, some practical. Among those lessons is this gem: Appreciate what you have; you never know when it might be taken from you.

Allow me to set the stage: Around the holidays, I began my annual grumble session about the family’s need for a larger house, the dingy paint in several rooms, the continued deterioration of our old roof (to be fair, they told us a few years ago when we bought our house, the roof didn’t have much life left) and the hardwood floors that, in some places of my home, are downright drafty.

Lest some of you be swayed into thinking we were hoodwinked into buying a money pit, I should explain that my house, located in historic Woodland Heights, will be 110 years old this year. Having an affinity for older homes with their hardwood floors, transom doors and what just feels like history to me, we bought the home with our eyes wide open, fully aware that there’s lots of work to be done.

Even so, every winter, I begin to get antsy, dreaming of a newer, larger home. I don’t know if it’s the Christmas tree and all the holiday paraphernalia that hems me in, or if, as time has gone on, the five of us have simply accumulated too much “stuff.” Probably, it’s a little bit of both.

In any case, probably a week or less before the ice hit, I was continuing my diatribe in a campaign to move. I reasoned that we have two years before our youngest child starts school. By that time, the boys will be making the jump to middle school, so it would be good to move now so that if they do change schools, they’d have time to get comfortable before entering that most gawky and awkward of phases that is middle school.

I found fault with many aspects of my home, but my husband, the reasonable, logical sort that he is, shot holes in each one of my reasons to move. (Need more room? We can expand, both on the main level and upstairs. Dingy paint? Where’s a paintbrush? Drafty floors? They can be repaired. Easier backyard access? Let’s add a deck and move the side door to the back of the house).

And then, the ice came. I remember lying in bed listening to the odd juxtaposition between eerie winter-night quiet and the mournful sound that came – followed by cracking – as tree after tree bowed down under the weight of the ice. My century-old yard has – or had, most likely – wonderful old trees that provided ample shade. We’re probably going to lose them, as most of the crowns are gone, and according to tree experts, that most likely means they won’t be able to grow.

Our household was among the thousands in the city that went without power. Our powerless stint was 12 days. A few days were spent with friends and family, but the bulk of the time was spent in a local hotel. Five people, one room, two beds. Thankfully, there was heat. And, thankfully, we had the resources to use that room. It hurts to think about the families – and undoubtedly there were some – that had no heat, no nearby family and no way to pay for a hotel room and the warmth it could offer.

At first, the hotel living was an adventure. Dinner in restaurants, trips to the Laundromat – which for some reason, my kids love – and plenty of family time. By about Day 4, however, I began to think wistfully of my little house in north Springfield. When my 3-year-old, upon coming into the hotel room at the end of the day, began talking about the old house “where we used to live,” I was concerned. I reassured her, again and again, that we would indeed be going home.

As the days began to add up, I got more discouraged but took comfort in the fact that only minor repairs to our utility box were needed, and when power came, the house would be ready.

Finally, my power-identifying system gave me the news I wanted. That is to say, on one of my many, many calls to the house, the answering machine came on, which meant power had been restored and we could go HOME.

I won’t go into the mess that was my refrigerator, but I will say that when I walked into the front door and felt the heat that was being cranked out, I felt relief. Don’t get me wrong: The floors are still drafty, and there are still plenty of things that need to be done. Buying a newer home would still offer more space, more quickly, and provide more modern features.

But you know, I’m not ready to leave behind the old house. I may never be. It might require some reconfiguration of space – or a paring down of possessions – but some things, I just couldn’t take with me. The dings in the old doorjambs from two little boys who tried to “walk up them,” a little girl’s pink bedroom where she plays dress-up – or cars – with abandon, and the happy memories and the pride we felt coming into the house as brand-new homeowners. I am, it would seem, finally at home.

Maria Hoover is Features Editor of Springfield Business Journal.[[In-content Ad]]