A Toast to Michael
The long business of cleaning out my Mom’s house and getting
it ready to put on the market started last June. The first several months of that time my husband, Michael
said he’d help with the heavy jobs.
He’d carry the big sacks of junk out of the house, down the stairs from
the second story or up the stairs from the basement. He’d help put the heavy pieces into the dumpster and he’d
help carry the furniture out of the house. “But”, he said, “after all that’s done with, I’m out of
it.” That meant, to him, and to
me, that he wouldn’t help anymore, that he’d leave the rest to me.
When he first used that phrase I felt angry with him,
because even after the house was cleared of messes and furniture, there was
still going to be a lot that needed to be done. If I couldn’t count on him for help, I was really going to
be on my own with this big, falling-down house and the specter of that made my
head spin.
As time moved on though, I found that “I’m out of it” meant
“until the next time I want to add my advice or my muscle to what you’re doing.” Michael is a guy who thinks there is
really only one way to do things—his way.
So when he’d see me putting something off, like getting the old freezer
and refrigerator out of the basement, he found a coupon in his electric bill
for removal of unused appliances. I was able to get PSE to come, remove the
appliances and even send me a VISA gift card for $20 each. When our realtor mentioned that banks
want “health letters” to verify there is a working septic system before they
will grant real estate loans, Michael called a septic company to come out to
find the system. I was in
Wisconsin at the time. Did I
mention he doesn’t like to wait around—no procrastinating for him. When I got home he had shovels ready
for us to go out and dig the septic up.
He arranged for a landscaper, too, who came out and took all the
blackberries out of the backyard and unearthed old hoses, rotted pieces of
wood, a laundry room sink and other things that had gotten back there somehow. What was left was a pile of take-to-the
dump stuff, which we did together.
The most recent “I’m out of it” moment came when one of the realtors
locked the basement door for which we had no key. Michael made several suggestions as to how to handle the
problem, one of them being that he would try to break into the basement with
some of his tools. He tried, it
didn’t work and we called a locksmith, who solved the problem.
If I had a dollar for every time my husband has said, “I’m
out of it!” I’d have quite a
little bundle by now. And each
time he’s jumped right back in, sometimes being grumpy about it, but always
helping. When he says, “I’m out of
it” now, I slide a look at him and smile because it’s a sure case of the boy
who cried wolf. I just don’t
believe it anymore.
I have taken him to lunch
many times over the past months in gratitude for his helping me with a big job
at Mom’s house. We’ve dragged
ourselves, dirty and sweaty into the Taqueria El Huarache in Silverdale and
loosened our sore muscles with Negro Modelo and beans, rice and salsa. There doesn’t seem any way to thank him
enough for all he’s done, but one day I have a feeling he’ll say, “Remember all
those times I told you I was out of it, but I helped you anyway? I have a way you can repay me.” Until that day, this public
appreciation will have to do.
Thank you, dear husband, for all you’ve done to help me through this
hard time. Because of you, I can
still walk upright and my knees still work and I have not had a nervous
breakdown. You’ll get your hugs
and kisses in private.
