CityView Magazine

14 | May 2020 S O M E D A Y Y O U ' L L T H A N K M E There's No Place Like Home BY MARY ZAHRAN I never thought about writing a thank-you note to my house, but aer spending so much time here the past few weeks because of the Covid-19 pandemic, I have developed an appreciation for you that I never had before. We became acquainted in the fall of 1992 when I first saw you and decided that you were a perfect fit for my family. In January of 1993, we moved in and our relationship began. I knew from the start that you were a singular creation: your aversion to straight lines was evident in every crooked doorway and uneven floor. Painters and carpenters alike would explain to me that "the house was just settling" because of the hilly terrain in our neighborhood. Aer several years of these remarks from nearly every handyman who came into our home, coupled with our discoveries of even more odd angles and pitches, we began to refer to you as our Dr. Seuss House. You should feel honored to be named for a writer whose approach to shaping sentences resembles your approach to shaping physical spaces — unorthodox but also charming and unforgettable. Perhaps I should feel honored to live in a house that is so forgiving of its owner's many shortcomings. You have graciously submitted to my various attempts at decorating you with some questionable paint colors (including one that resembled Pepto-Bismol) and even more questionable furniture arrangements. At some point during these trying times, you must have figured out that I was an English teacher, not an interior designer, and so you withheld judgement even as I splattered bright pink paint onto your walls. Yes, you have been quite the stoic through every kind of storm that a house is forced to endure. You ignore our family discussions when they sometimes get a bit too lively. You stand strong against the forces of nature when rain and wind, cold and heat threaten to damage or destroy you. You ushered us through hours of heavy rain during Hurricane Matthew when we spent the entire aernoon and half the night bailing water out of the basement. e next morning, you witnessed our relief at seeing a dry basement when we could just as easily have found a swimming pool with boxes of Christmas ornaments floating around in it. You took one for the team during Hurricane Florence when a sharp branch from a pine tree struck our roof with the speed of a missile, punching a hole in the kitchen ceiling. We had to deal with a flooded kitchen, but you had to deal with a bruised ego knowing that your heretofore impenetrable barrier had now been breached. I'd like to think that all the repairs we did to mend the physical damage to our house also mended the emotional damage done to your psyche. Since we haven't heard any complaints from you about that unfortunate event, we assume you are healed. ere are many other things you could complain about to your owners, but you generally remain silent. In the 27 years that I have climbed up and down your stairs, you have never once complained about my gradual weight gain, although I have heard an occasional groan as I carry a basket of laundry downstairs to be washed. Naturally, I assume that you are groaning at the added weight of the basket's contents, not the added weight of your owner. You have never complained about the basement staircase, which looks like it belongs in a film noir, not a Haymount residence. I understand perfectly if you have spent years nervously waiting for Ray Milland or Joseph Cotton to push Dear Humble Abode,

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