home – Stained Glass Butterfly

The House in the Magazine

When I was a teenager, I fell into a Victorian phase and never fully recovered. I loved long dresses, lace collars, velvet, wicker furniture, vintage jewelry. I discovered Victoria magazine in high school, and I swear I had every single issue until I graduated.

One particular issue sat on the desk in my bedroom for a long time. Turning the pages one day, I came across the most adorable little Victorian cottage, white with black shutters, with steps up to the front door and an American flag proudly flying from a porch post. Circling the yard was a beautiful white picket fence with a gate. Something about it struck me. It wasn’t the biggest house. It wasn’t the fanciest. But it was so unbelievably cute, so inviting, and I loved it. Every time I looked at it, I vowed I would live in a house like that someday.

I kept that magazine and enjoyed turning the pages over and over again, looking at the same pictures but still finding happiness in the beauty and femininity on the glossy pages. I would tilt back in my desk chair and prop my feet on the edge of my desk (something my mother would walk by and yell at me to stop doing because I was certain to crash backwards and split my thick skull open like a hardboiled egg).

At some point while leaving for college, shuffling back and forth, then moving out completely, I lost track of that magazine. I imagine it got thrown away. I still flip through Victoria magazine at bookstores, and I never forgot the picture of that little Victorian house that I adored so much.

Something got me to thinking about it more than usual lately. I decided I wanted a copy of that magazine with the house in it, but there was a problem: I didn’t know what issue it was. I didn’t remember what year, or even what the cover looked like. I clearly remembered the picture of that house, but not much more.

I started with Victoria magazine’s website, but their past issues only go back ten years, and my high school days were just a tiny smidgen past ten years ago (*ahem*). I tried eBay next and was pleased to see so many people selling old copies of Victoria, but again, I didn’t know which specific issue I was looking for.

Well, let’s see…I know what years I was in high school, so I narrowed it down to that. It was still a lot of issues, and while I recognized some of the covers, I had no idea which one was the right one.

I was just about to give up when one particular cover seemed to ask me to look closer. It looked just a little bit more familiar than the others. Luckily, the seller had opened the magazine and taken pictures of a few of the pages inside. About three or pictures down in the item description, there it was: the page with my adorable Victorian cottage at the top.

I couldn’t believe I had found it. I couldn’t race to the checkout fast enough, as if a stampede of people were waving fistfuls of cash to land that decades-old copy of a magazine (not likely).

Yesterday, it arrived in the mail. I sat down on the couch and carefully opened the magazine, not wanting to damage it, and gently turned the pages until I found it:

Isn’t it just the cutest thing? I still love it. I showed the picture to my husband, and he liked it, too.

It was so odd, holding that magazine again, looking at that picture again, just like I did over 30 years ago. I felt like I should have permed hair and frosted pink lipstick, Def Leppard blaring from my cassette player, with my feet kicked up on the edge of my desk in my old bedroom, dreaming about someday.

I thought about the house I now share with my husband, my best friend. And then, with a smile, it struck me: our house isn’t the biggest house. It isn’t the fanciest. But it is so unbelievably cute, so inviting, and we love it.

I had promised myself I would someday live in house that I love –and I do. I hadn’t pictured the husband part as a teenager, though. I suppose he is just a lucky (and very happy) bonus!

He’s My Home

I knew coming back to work this week would be agony, even if it was a short week for me. I didn’t expect it to be just as draining and exhausting as it has been, though! Has this week been roughly 100 years long, or it is just me?

This morning, in that sleepy, lazy, sultry haze right before the alarm went off, I was so wrapped up in my husband, skin to skin, that we were practically knotted together: his arms around me, my hands wrapped about his arms, even our legs tangled together, just to be as close to each other as possible. When the blasted alarm rudely interrupted us, I smacked the snooze button, again and again, just so I could roll back over to him for a little bit longer before reluctantly starting the day.

I’m always happy to head home to my husband, but today especially, even more than usual, I have missed him and found myself thinking of him all day. I took a walk during my lunch to some shops nearby, and stores are packed with pink and white and red for Valentine’s Day, which made me smile and wonder if we will do what we do every year, promise we aren’t getting each other gifts, then give each other presents anyway.

The weekend is supposed to get off to a rainy start, and I’m glad. I just want to hibernate this weekend, relax, hopefully only leave the house for our weekly date night. After several busy holiday weeks, travel, guests, etc., a quiet, peaceful weekend at home sounds like heaven.

Rain

Yesterday, my morning started with a lengthy dentist appointment. (Jealous already, aren’t you?) Doesn’t every peaceful morning begin with injections into your gums, the roaring buzz of a drill, and various hands and tools stuffed into your mouth?

I spent the afternoon with a numbed mouth, playing catch-up at work and fighting a headache that started at the dentist’s office. I was relieved to finally head home. Just seeing my husband standing in the kitchen made me smile (as I gulped Aleve like candy).

A surprise rain shower kicked up, despite no rain in the forecast. As avid gardeners, we are disproportionately happy about rain! We went outside to sit in rocking chairs on the front porch, watched the gentle rain, and talked about our days, our garden plans, anything and everything that popped into our heads.

I leaned back in my chair, my hand resting on my husband’s knee, his hand on top of mine. We have so many plants on the front porch that I practically couldn’t see around them, but I like it that way. It felt like being tucked away in our own private hideaway.

I listened to his voice, mixed with the soft patter of rain, and I felt the tension of the day melt away. My headache eased up in the cool breeze, and I relaxed, almost drowsy, peaceful.

I’ve had back-to-back meetings today, with barely enough time to dash to the microwave to heat up a lackluster lunch that I ate while working. My mind keeps drifting back to that rocking chair on the porch, hand in hand with my husband, happy and sleepy in the drizzling rain. Maybe, if I’m lucky, we will have another surprise rainstorm very soon.

Home Sweet Home

Every weekend goes by much too quickly, but this one really flew by. Our official weekend was delayed by a social event on Saturday afternoon, so we loaded up the truck and stopped by to make our appearance.

I had a feeling it was going to be a disaster, and I was right. No signs, no indication what room it was in, even though it was at a hotel. I thought we would be able to find it by the sounds of people talking and laughing inside, but we actually walked right past it and had to double back because no one was uttering a peep. It was like a funeral, not a party. The dowdy so-called host was still setting up the tiny room, frowning and looking frazzled, and everyone in the room seemed to have absorbed her negative energy.

We sat down and tried to have fun anyway. The room was cramped and awkwardly set up, boxing everyone into staying right where they landed, because there was no room to turn around, walk around, do anything but stay right where they were and dream of being somewhere else.

My husband is loud and likes to joke around, so soon, people fortunate to be seated close to our end of the table were showing the only signs of life in the somber, uncomfortable room. He glanced around, then said to me, “Is it just me, or does everyone look like they wish they weren’t here?” A few people nearby overhead him and laughed in relief, obviously thinking the same thing.

Luckily, we had plans set in place long before this event, so we made our good-byes, hopped into the truck, and finally got our weekend started. I changed clothes in the truck, much to my husband’s delight, and in a few hours we were setting up our tent next to a lake, trees, and serenading birds. Much better.

When it got dark, we sat next to the camp fire, talking and relaxing. We got to chatting about other trips we might like to take, and my husband said that he loves day trips, and he loves even an overnight trip like that one, but that he really likes to just be at home with me. I have to agree. When someone mentions going out of town for days or even a week or more, I think, that’s an awfully long time to be away from home. I don’t mind a night, maybe even two, but then I want to walk back through our front door and relax in our own home, our personal sanctuary, where we are just happiest.

Echoes

On Saturday, it was roughly 50 million degrees outside. I am not a fan of hot weather, to put it mildly, but we had work to do, so I slathered on enough sunscreen to protect me from a nuclear blast, put on my big, floppy, dorky-but-practical hat, and bravely ventured out of the air-conditioned refuge of the house.

While my husband mowed the grass, I gave the poor plants much-needed water, trimmed roses, planted some new plants, all the while sweating more than any human being should be expected to sweat. When my husband finished the grass, he brought me cold water from the house, then sat in the shade on the front porch and watched me finish up, trimming a potted plant by the walkway.

He surveyed the yard like royalty regarding his kingdom, smiled, then told me, “I love our house.”

Even though I was two seconds away from a heat stroke and panting like a dehydrated dog, I had to smile too. Yes, I love our home, too. We have put a lot of work into our house and our yard, making it ours, and just looking at it makes me happy. I feel peace reach out to me when I pull into the driveway after work, and walking through the front door, I feel like I am entering our little sanctuary, our little piece of the world, leaving everything else outside.

I still remember standing on that front porch the first time we went to view the house. It’s funny to think about it now, when it was someone else’s house, empty, and we walked through those rooms for the first time. Now, I can’t imagine anyone else ever being in it, or us being anywhere else. Our touches fill the rooms, hang on the walls. Our voices echo in the air. (And since both of us can get loud, especially when we’re laughing, that’s a lot of echoes!)

I hope we never stop feeling this way. It brings me so much happiness and peace.