Open the door

See that door to the right? That's my front door. The front door that's been driving me buggy the past few weeks. The door is from the late 1800s and it's made of wood ... wood that swells more and more as the humidity rises.

Well, it's been humid lately and my door is swelling.

Last year that door swelled so much it was impossible to open for a few days. Impossible. Luckily there was no fire requiring us to run out the front door, as Jim and I surely would have perished. (Luckily there was no fire requiring us to run out the back door, either, but at least that would have been feasible.)

So my door is swollen, which really isn't that big of a deal. There are far worse things in the world -- even in just daily living -- to be concerned about.

But the weird thing is that this door underscores a bizarre theme I've noticed running through my life for the past month or so. A completely unintentional theme. A theme of doors.

In years past, I didn't think too much about doors. Except, of course, when the girls liked to slam doors as a show of force when they didn't get their way. Or when those slammed doors were removed from the hinges to punish the girls for slamming them -- or because they lost the privilege of having doors and the privacy they provide, privacy that made it impossible to know what questionable things the girls were doing behind those closed doors. Or when I would march into the bathroom and slam and lock the door to keep myself in and Jim out when he really cussed me off. (Boy, I really know how to show him!)

Other than those far-too-common times, though, doors weren't much of an issue. Now, for some unknown reason, they figure prominently on my to-do list, in my conversations, in various facets of my life. And I'm not talking just about the swollen door that makes it difficult for me to go out front to pick up my daily newspaper or my mail.

On my to-do list is "put door on Craigslist," for we have this wonderful glass sliding door in perfect condition that someone surely would love to install in their home. But I don't feel like dealing with the Craigslist crowd right now, so that door hangs over my head. (Figuratively, of course. It's actually leaning against a wall in the garage.)

Then there's Bubby and doors -- more specifically, his discovery of the power of a closed door. Megan called recently to say that Bubby has taken to rounding up Roxy, taking her to his room and shutting the door to play hours-long games of make-believe with his buddy. When Megan opens the door to check on him, he cries, "No, Mommy, shut door!" Which she does, for Bubby's just innocently exercising his imagination, not torturing poor Roxy behind the closed door; Megan's sure of that, as the baby monitor now comes in handy to keep tabs on his daily doings, not just those of the night.

         

Another odd door thing is that, with no intention whatsoever, Jim and I recently watched "When You're Strange," the 2009 rockumentary about none other than, you guessed it, The Doors. Then Jim watched "Classic Albums: The Doors." (He's more into The Doors than I am.)

Then there's the bizarre phrase Jim keeps uttering; not like a crazy person or anything, just when the time seems right ... to him. Maybe he got it from the recent documentaries; maybe he made it up. I'm not sure, but it's about doors. "The door has been provided ... all you have to do is walk through it," he keeps saying.

What the cuss is that all about? When I worry about new challenges, he says it. When the girls complain about unhappy situations, he says it. When the dogs want to come in at night, he says it. Again and again, Jim waxes philosophical about doors and walking on through them.

(Okay, so I made that up about the dogs. But he has said it -- and continues to say it -- to the rest of us, in a variety of situations.)

I don't know what it means. I don't know why doors are figuring so prominently in my life right now,  and I don't know why Jim -- after nearly 30 years together and never saying it before -- has started telling me to walk through one.

So maybe the answer, the resolution, the clarity will come once I find that door of which Jim speaks, the door that all these other doors are directing me to. Maybe good things await on the other side of that door ... if only I open it and walk on through.

My only hope? That when I find that cuss door, it's not one made of wood. Because with all the humidity we've had lately, that certainly would not bode well for my journey.

One final, minor note (hence the smaller font): All the door photos here are of doors in my house. See? My life is nothing but doors, doors, doors. Well, that and stairs, stairs, and more stairs.

Today's question:

What door have you recently walked through, a door to something exciting, challenging, foreboding or fun?

Grandma's creepy wallpaper

I live in an unusual house. It was built in 1974 by a husband and wife who immigrated from Poland. They built the house around many features they collected from prominent local buildings and homes of the late 1800s that had been demolished for a variety of reasons. We have fireplaces, windows, staircases and more from the bank, the opera house, a doctor's home and other long-gone structures.

Overall, it's a pretty cool and interesting place to live. But there are some bizarre touches here and there, things I've gotten used to for the most part and usually no longer think too hard about them. On most days.

Yesterday was not one of those days. For some reason the wallpaper lining the hallway to the laundry room caught my interest once again and I thought you all might be able to help me solve the mystery surrounding my creepy wallpaper.

From what I understand, the wallpaper is one of the touches from the homeland of the original owners. It appears to be illustrations of cautionary tales, much like Grimm's Fairy Tales, but of a Polish bent. The illustrations are fine and good and understandable when considered as part of an old-time nursery book. We all know fairy tales and such can be, unfortunately, weird ... and violent. Which is exactly what the illustrations on my wall are. But why would such images be taken from the page and placed upon the wall?

Take a look:

Creepy, huh? That is what I see every time I do laundry, every time I use the ironing board, every time I change the litter box.

And every time I show people around my house, I have to explain the creepy wallpaper and why I don't remove it.

I don't remove the paper because it's antique. I think. If nothing else, it's unusual. And like all the other unusual features in my house, there's a story attached to this wallpaper; I just don't know what it is. I'm pretty sure it was put there by the couple from Poland, but that's it.

My biggest question about the wallpaper, though, the real mystery to me, isn't why the builders of our home put it there, but why anyone -- no matter where they lived in the world, no matter what period of time -- would think these pictures might look great on a wall, why they should qualify as print for wallpaper, why that wallpaper was ever manufactured in the first place. Did people in Poland line nursery walls with these images? Were resident children better behaved when they had these constant reminders of a horrible fate that might befall them if they misbehaved? Was such wallpaper used in places other than nurseries? Did anyone and everyone who ever saw it have nightmares?

It's a mystery I'll likely never solve.

Unless, of course, one of my dear readers has knowledge of Polish fairytales, the ones featuring drunks who fall in the lake or drag kids through the forest by their hair. If so, please enlighten me. Give me the "rest of the story" to regale the next group of visitors to my home and provide me with details on why these wacky illustrations figured so prominently in a culture that people adorned their walls with them.

Then maybe -- just maybe -- I can move on to seeking assistance with yet another mystery of my home: the one involving a discoverer of sunken treasure who has seemingly gone missing and I think just might be buried in my front yard.

Like I said, I live in a very unusual house.

Today's question: (If you read this early, yes, it was a different question. I like this one better.)

What's the creepiest feature of your house?

T minus six days

Megan and Bubby are coming to visit on Sunday -- for five full days! Which means it's time to babyproof the place.

It's not like Bubby's never been here before, but each time he's visited Grandma's, he's been relatively immobile. Now he gets around ... a lot. And my house has stairs ... a lot.

The other day on the phone, Megan gingerly brought up the topic of our zillions of stairs.

Megan: "Ummm, have you thought about your stairs, Mom?"

Me: "Yes, Megan, I've thought about the stairs." (How could I not? There's at least one step into and out of every room in our house, plus massive staircases from one level to the next.)

Megan: "Well, Bubby climbs stairs now."

Me: "I know. I remember you telling me that. But we have baby gates. Lots and lots of baby gates."

Megan: "No. That's why I'm saying this, Mom. Bubby doesn't need baby gates. He does stairs now."

Me: "Uh, I don't think so, Megan. Not our stairs."

Megan: "He does fine, Mom. Really. He's a big boy. He's allowed to go up and down stairs."

Me: "I'm not comfortable with that. Nope, not comfortable with that."

Megan: "I kinda figured as much, which is why I'm mentioning it now, Mom. Just think about it."

Is this a crazy conversation or what? I thought new mothers were supposed to be hyper vigilant, chastising Grandma again and again about all the dangers lurking in her home and how to babyproof those dangers away.

But here's my daughter telling me I don't need baby gates in my house of 10,000 stairs? With a 21-month-old toddler on his way? For five days? And with me so proud of myself that I have SIX baby gates in my possession for ensuring his safety during his visit?

Apparently that's six too many.

At least Megan knows me well enough to not spring such things on me at the last moment. She knows I need time to deliberate, time to think things through.

So I've thought this through. And -- call me crazy -- but we will be using baby gates while Bubby's here.

At least five two of the six I have on hand.

Now, is there anything else I need to be sure to not babyproof before Bubby gets here? Any suggestions would be appreciated, as I've clearly not yet figured out this whole grandma thing.

Today's question:

What's the worst accident that's befallen you or another in your own home?

My answer: I fell off the top of a ladder while Jim and I were remodeling our previous house and was quite bruised and battered by the fall and subsequent entanglement with the ladder that fell with me.