Deeds! There had been an actual treasure trove of stuff underneath the floorboard, but deeds – as in plural – were what caught my attention. I wondered, and not for the first time, if the information I was finding in the house had been hidden out of distress or laziness. I couldn’t tell. What I could tell, however, was that I apparently owned more than I had initially believed and most probably what the seller had known about as well.

I also learned that there was a tunnel starting behind what I had originally thought were just boards to supply a sort of underpinning to the root cellar. One Saturday I took a flashlight and a broom for both spiderwebs and weaponry – okay, I know (But still) and explored it. It traveled underneath the sleeping porch and then another two or so miles and ended at the far end of an old-fashioned covered bridge (I own a covered bridge!). I’m still not sure why someone dug a tunnel, and a long one (at least to me) at that. I found nothing to smuggle from my house and wondered what had been of such value or danger in the past. So many whys.

But I do know a thing or two about deeds and I confirmed my ownership of the additional property I hadn’t known about.

I couldn’t do things as quickly as I would have liked, because I still had to sort out “the delicate matter” to which I’d been assigned. Looking back, I should’ve figured things out more quickly. But I didn’t. I blame myself for that, but I also forgive myself for it because all of God’s children sometimes stumble even with the lights on. It took 7 days straight of waking up at 4 a.m. before it clicked. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’d heard the term 4 a.m. talking points. It must have tweaked my unconscious until I made a waking connection. Once I did, I could see clearly that the information I was given – the talking points as my subconscious told me – wasn’t the whole story. I won’t discuss the matter other than to say I found myself having to confront my boss and resign from my job and what lately had been a decent remote work arrangement. Oh I could’ve stayed and lived with the pretense that I hadn’t connected him to the matter needing discretion. I could’ve kept my mouth shut. I had done so in the past, and that’s probably why he gave me the assignment. But having learned about courage from the former inhabitants of this place, I couldn’t very well do it now. Finding myself in the line of owners of this crumbling edifice, for some reason I didn’t want to let them down. I became an independent contractor and found more than enough remote work to stay at my new old rundown home. I can assert it is no longer new to me, but it is still definitely rundown.

It’s been a year! One year ago today I bought a house sight unseen. It was a ridiculous decision, and I clearly understood the term buyer’s remorse the minute I pulled in front of my ill-considered purchase. Do I still have buyer’s remorse? About the house – yes, indeed. It’s terrible and will take more time and money than I want to invest to make it comfortable and appealing. But I bought more than I knew.

And this is what I learned: The things in this life that we are given to own may look to us like a tumbledown bit of nothing. They may appear without merit or too far gone to salvage. And yet. And yet what is hidden from us, what is unseen, and what, if we make the effort to uncover, we eventually discover is far greater than what meets the eye.

Now excuse me while I drink a cup of coffee, enjoy my lemon poppy seed scone, and watch the sunset. Oh yes – and admire the sign I placed in front of my house just this afternoon. It is the name I have given my property: Hole In The Wall.

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I woke with a start at the edge of morning while it was still dark. And it was. Pitch black. My heart was racing, but there was no dream in memory that could have prompted it. I reached for my bedside lamp and turned it on. It’s a gift, isn’t it, when the electricity works? The utilities in my new home being what they were, I was quickly learning gratefulness for those little things.

There was nothing out of place. I looked at my watch. It was 4:00. Some people go to work at this time of day, I reasoned. I certainly wasn’t in the mood to return to pitch black.

I was dressed and at my computer, files spread on the table, and a cup of coffee accompanied by a lemon poppy seed scone next to it by 4:30. I’d stocked up on scone ingredients before I left the city. Don’t judge. It’s harder to think freely or analyze when feeling emotional, and I needed both in my work. Scones were my way to rise above the fear I had felt upon waking. Emotional eating has its uses. Due to my early start, I finished for the day by early afternoon.

I was by now in the habit of using my afternoons to (try to) fix the broken down mess I’d bought, and was accomplishing at least a little. I had reconstructed my front porch. That was somewhat of an accomplishment, I assured myself. I’d pulled down cupboards, sanded and painted them, and somehow gotten them back in place so my dishes didn’t slide toward the cupboard door like they had at first. You have no idea the pleasure it is to open a cupboard door without bracing for destruction. This afternoon, I’d pushed and pulled and carried everything out of the living room whose floors I planned to sand as my evening entertainment.

In the meantime, I brought my box of the things retrieved from the hole in the wall, sat on the porch to await the sunset, and mulled over loose connections floating around in my brain.

I got to bed later than usual. Sanding can be a messy project. One board, in particular, had given me terrible trouble until I realized it had been pulled up and nailed down again. It didn’t take much to pull it up, and what I discovered had kept me awake until the wee hours.

to be continued . . .

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I was about halfway down the lane when I began to regret that it wasn’t paved. The rain from the night before (the one I had commended myself about thinking ahead and putting out pots and pans to catch the rain – that one) had left not only friendly puddles here and there, but an unfortunate puddle the size of my ex-boyfriend’s propensity for lying – excuses with holes in timelines and logic that defied the imagination of any reasonable person . . . but I digress. For those of you uninterested in detours, let me just say it was a very large puddle that covered the breadth of the road, and leave it at that. However, I managed to skirt it by going off-road for the minute it took to go around it.

The next morning I dropped off my car at the auto shop (the off-road minute had compromised the front axle), walked the extra mile to work, and stepped into the office as though I hadn’t entered another world in one weekend.

I had decided to be dignified and personally hand in my resignation. Before I could hand it to my boss, he pulled me aside. He had a special assignment requiring some amount of delicacy and would I be willing to work remotely for the next six months or however long it would take to complete it? To wit: was I willing to disappear while on assignment?

Okay. I must take another detour here, and I’m sorry for those of you who get hives from such things, but it must be done. You see, I work in forensics, my boss is a fairly well-known lawyer, and there have been things that have crossed my desk from time to time that have given me pause. And while I can be impulsive, I can also be circumspect in office conversation. And although there are gaping holes in some of my life skills, I’ve become rather good at my job. So you’ll understand that when the word “delicacy” is used, the reputation or worse of someone of note is very possibly at risk.

I scrunched my face as though I needed to think about it, not as though I had to guard against jumping up and down. He hurriedly assured me the firm would pay any related costs. I blinked fast, which made him offer me an increase in salary. I inquired whether paving a lane could be included in the offer and he gave me his hasty affirmation. I began to think that if I stayed any longer I would own the firm, but who wants that headache? We shook hands, I cleaned out my desk, and made arrangements for a satellite internet that would impress Tim Cook.

It’s been two months, my lane is as smooth as a baby’s bottom, the electricity and utilities work as well as the government, and I’ve settled in. I’ve uncovered pieces of the lives of the people who lived here before me, thoroughly cleaned the root cellar and began to stock it, and found a use for the weeds behind the house (yes, I’m calling it a house in order to reassure myself that my future isn’t as bleak as the person whose delicate matter I’m researching). The weeds? I discovered that many of them were herbs or had some kind of usefulness. It’s going to take me longer than two months to figure it all out.

The puzzle that keeps me up at night, though, isn’t the weeds. It’s some of the letters that were hidden it the wall. Oh I fixed it. Who wants a hole in the wall? But I mean to say that those lives – the ones of the people who wrote the letters – they were full of courageous words. And as I look at my surroundings, I can’t for the life of me figure out why they would need to be brave and wish I knew. What’s the expression? Be careful what you wish for.

to be continued . . .

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It wasn’t the sun’s rays that woke me, but the scampering of little feet belonging to who knew what. On the heels of the sound, though, the sun peeked over the horizon, and I watched as red turned to orange and pink, filling the sky with indescribable color and hope.

I sipped day old coffee (bought from the gas station the day before and surprisingly still hot) from my thermos and mulled over my options. I had one more day to explore . . . okay, I know it shouldn’t take even a half hour to explore something like my “new house”, but the things stored in the wall told me otherwise.

It’s interesting, isn’t it, what you can learn from letters, journal entries, recipes, newspaper clippings, and the like. And hand-drawn maps. Innuendo isn’t only for mainstream media, politicians, and trashy novels, you know. And some of the things that I’d read in that place between wakefulness and sleep made me think that my house was like the lid of a jar. I determined to open it. I spread out some of the things I’d read and read them again to make sure I hadn’t been dreaming.

By the time dark enveloped my property, I’d made a plan. Now I’m not saying you should follow my example. In fact, I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t. But I concluded that if I was to honestly own this place, I should be more than a curiosity seeker. What I’m saying is that some people are owners in name only. They might have something, for instance, from an inheritance, but rarely visit it and value it only for its eventual monetary worth. Getting back to my conclusion: if I was to honestly own this place, I should take ownership – you know, like people do who actually believe something is theirs and that they are in charge of it. Like that. Which meant (in my mind) I needed to be more than a visitor on convenient weekends.

It had begun raining before I went to bed, and I took advantage  of it by setting out some pots and pans to collect the water. Even I am amazed at how well I think ahead sometimes. The next morning I cleaned. Okay, I mostly swept and sprayed the all-purpose cleaner with a “light lemon scent” I’d brought with me all over everything. At least I had rinse water!

I put away things I’d planned to take back with me and locked the door. I’d written my letter of resignation to my employer the night before, but hadn’t sent it. Sometimes spotty cell (and in this case, internet) service can save you from yourself, not that I planned on being saved. You have your personality, I have mine.

I watched my new house grow smaller in the rearview mirror as I drove down the long lane and back to my normal that would never seem normal again.

to be continued . . .

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Not without a huge sigh (part uncertainty and part regret), I disembarked from my car and just stood, looking. The house was surrounded by trees on both sides, in addition to the long lane I had just trekked. But some wild daisies sprinkled amidst the long grasses lent me comfort. A meadow of what appeared to be weeds of different sorts was visible if I leaned to peer around the side of the building, which I did. Weeds. How apt.

The house, itself, well, not really a house – I don’t know what to call it; was more than a shed, less than a respectable cabin – was fronted with a sagging porch with four steps ascending. I took the challenge, and, as I did, heard some scurrying underneath. I had company without even sending housewarming invitations! Lovely.

I fished the key from my pocket and unlocked the front door. It was sturdy! I took the win and stepped inside. Remarkably enough, it was furnished with decent furniture, clearly from past generations.

I blew dust from a side table holding a lamp and the lamp wobbled until I grabbed it. It seemed a nice piece, perhaps even valuable in its day. I would hate to be the owner that broke it. Then I wondered how many owners there had been: if I was the second after an original or near the end of a long line of proprietors. I wandered through the rooms: a living room, kitchen, bedroom, and even a small bathroom (I was pleasantly surprised, though held no certainty that it worked). Beyond the kitchen, to the back of the house, was a sleeping porch, complete with a swinging bed held to the rafters by sturdy chains. My eyes scanned the mattress full of acorns.

Dusk was creeping over the yard by the time I brought in my belongings. There had been more to explore than at first glance. For one thing, there was a root cellar. I know! I saved my examination of it for daylight when I could clear the spiderwebs  with greater assurance of seeing whether the spiders were elsewhere.

In my inspection of the bedroom, I had literally stumbled into what sounded like a hollow place in the wall near the head of the bed. I scraped the bed across the floor in order to get a closer look. With a little effort, I broke through the false part and found a compartment which held my interest as well as, it appeared, things from a past owner.

I pulled out my sturdy flashlight and spent my evening reading the papers I had found. By the time my eyes were gritty with sleep, I knew my new house was not the tumbledown shack it appeared to be.

to be continued . . .

Image: Pinterest

When I clicked, it was more of out of curiosity than intent. Then I decided I was hungry, and fixed myself a scone with grape preserves. That, of course, needed a cup of coffee to go with it, giving me even more time to ponder the possibilities from the admittedly vague listing on my computer. I don’t know if they do that for you, but scones always put me in an agreeable mood. By the time I’d followed possibility after peculiarity after potential, and after I’d polished off both scone and coffee, I’d contacted my bank, signed some papers, and become the proud owner of a house sight unseen.

Oh sure. Like you’ve never done something on impulse!

Don’t mind my defensiveness. The jitters I get when I think of what I’ve done could send me into the next decade, not that those years look any more promising than the ones everyone is bemoaning this year. Or last year. Or even the year before that. Maybe I should stop counting.

Anyway, that original, innocent click on the listing on my computer led me to a weekend trip outside of my usual paths. In addition to jitters, I was also a bit excited. Me! A homeowner! Visions of cute cottages with herb gardens and hunting lodges surrounded by bendy pines filled my imagination.

I rechecked the directions, and turned onto a long dirt lane. Yes, I have GPS. I’m not 60. I’m 27 and I know a thing or two. But my cell service stopped working about 20 miles back. Fortunately, the guy at the last gas station assured me with a creepy sort of smile that cell service is spotty in these parts, so after I’d gassed up and before starting out again, I’d taken advantage of what I hadn’t known would be the last of the reassuring, if not somewhat annoying, voice telling me which way to turn, and had written down directions I’d pulled up from a phone map service. Did I say the lane was long? And dirt? Because I feel like that’s something you need to know. At least I think I do.

Finally I pulled up to the front of my new house, which was neither cottage nor hunting lodge. And as I sat behind my steering wheel peering at the structure in front of me, I thought to myself that I should’ve sworn off my love of scones long ago.

to be continued . . .

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Rain pelted the window as the wind shook it. He pulled on some woolen socks, scraped a kitchen chair out from the table, and picked up the pocket watch. It had been handed down for six generations and had landed in his possession when his father died.

He didn’t need it. He had a watch. It was a Tissot. No Rolex, granted, but not bad for an accountant. He’d thought of getting cash for the heirloom at a pawnshop, but then had thought better. He examined the pocket watch, turning it over, and thought of family members who had owned it before him. Most of them had kept it hidden away in a drawer, as far as he knew. His family wasn’t one for following each other’s dreams; only their own. Besides, he chuckled to himself, who would want to be an accountant? But it held interest for him, and interest was good in oh so many ways.

He ran his thumb over the words in pretty script at the bottom of the watch: World’s Fair Chicago 1893. What the Great Chicago Fire didn’t accomplish, the World’s Fair was designed to finish. What a morose thought! Still. Was a sullen truth worse than a happy lie? He knew he wasn’t alone in thinking that despite the story of Mrs. O’Leary’s cow, it wasn’t likely that a kicked-over lantern would have burned down over three miles of a city. Poor Mrs. O’Leary: living out her life in relative reclusion what with the notoriety of the story! But, he thought, a fire can destroy as surely without a conclusive origin as with one. And destruction is useful for someone who wants to build back better. Yes, what the Chicago fire didn’t do, a World’s Fair might. He scolded himself for thinking it. It was a nice-looking watch, after all.

He pulled an old book from his bookshelf and paged through it, not for the first time. His eyes drifted to the part about the Midway Plaisance, but despite it’s name, he didn’t feel pleased. Those at the very top of the Fair’s planning, the ones with the money, said they were celebrating the past, while in reality planning a future the unsuspecting attendees wouldn’t have believed. Albert Pike and his green ink would have approved. But he felt no attraction to the glorious accounts of the spectacle. He was not impressed, and he knew why. Over the years he had read more than he wished he had read. It had changed his initial curiosity to distaste. Oh yes. He knew why he felt no attraction. He didn’t worship their god.

He rose and went to the window. The rain had stopped and even the little droplets from the storm had found their home at the bottom of the outside sill. The Fair that changed America. Give them bread and circuses! People still wanted a progressive utopia with all of its moving parts, and those who had planned it all long ago would have been pleased to hear of it. He appreciated one thing – a very big thing: Nikola Tesla’s alternating current. History claimed Tesla’s lights illuminated the Fair as the first rays of Arcturus began to show themselves. He added Arcturus to the short list. He could appreciate a very old star such as that. Stars, after all, were time keepers, too. And light in the darkness was grand whether through electricity or nature or Spirit. Yes, there was always something to appreciate among the detritus of history.

He felt the weight of the pocket watch in his hand. And time. He could appreciate – even value – time. He stared into space. Light broke darkness with time. He needed time. The whole world needed time. Precious, precious time. He started over to his desk drawer to stow the heirloom as generations before him had done, then paused, and slipped the watch into his pocket instead.