Amanda Wrangles
The Clan Destine Home of Rising Writer - Amanda Wrangles
Houses. Homes. Renovating.
Apparently, it’s the great suburban obsession. Ideally, we’d all like somewhere nice to live. And, if you have a young family; somewhere sizable with a couple of bathrooms and a decent back yard would make the dream complete, especially if it’s within the designated price range. Right? Well... it sounds perfect doesn’t it? Unless of course, you’re an obsessively compulsive creative couple who bounce ideas off each other like those little rubber super balls in a box. The sort that keep ricocheting off surface after surface until someone stops them head on. The sort of couple who religiously watched renovating shows on TV. The sort of couple who figured: Bah, with our skills, we could do that. No problem.
So thought Simon (here by known as Wonder Husband or WH) and me. Back in 2004, we’d been married for nine years, had a four year old son and another brand new baby boy. We had been lucky enough to get our foot in the clunking steel door of the housing market nine years previously, a year after we wed. Back then we purchased a cute little builder’s spec. home as it was being built. A weatherboard cottage complete with fancy ceiling roses, polished floorboards and a claw-foot bath. Just to add the pretty perfection of it all, the home where I grew up (and my parents still lived) was literally sixteen doors away. And, importantly for this (then) non-driver, it was walking distance to the hair salon where I spent my days cutting hair and destroying my back.
A year after we moved in to our perfectly perfect little cottage, we added a deck extension out the back with a sunken outdoor spa. A year after that, we built a shed that was divided into two rooms; his and hers with separate entrances. His was a bloke’s domain, full of noisy machines with power cords and sharp, pointy bits. Mine had carpet, a computer (with net access) space for my easel and oil paintings, and two long tables for sculpting mermaids. Bliss! How many women, especially mothers - which I was by then – would scratch someone’s eyes out for a space like that? (Okay, admittedly I also had to run a business out of my side. Back in those days we not only owned a SCUBA diving shop/school/charter operation in a real shop down the road, but also a wholesale spearfishing equipment business that took up space in my fabulous girly shed AND I was still doing hair. But that’s another blog).
Then I went and had the second baby and got myself all restless. My feet were more than itching, they were tearing me up from the inside. I needed a new challenge. A house that wasn’t so pretty. Something with a bigger chunk of earth for my boys to play on.
I searched for exactly one day. WH came home from work (now back plastering houses, the water-logged businesses both finally gone) and I presented him with a photo and blurb from the real estate section in the local paper.
“Large Family Needed!” read the header. Hmm. We were far from a large family, but I loved the idea of spare rooms. Images of an indoor art room filled my mind. A home theatre, a library! The sales pitch went on to say that the house needed work and a creative touch. Ha! That was us in a nutshell. Other than a few years underwater, WH had spent most of his life in the building trade, and, well, my head is permanently overflowing with crazy ideas.
The biggest problem was that he agreed with me, no argument whatsoever.
We checked out the almost forty-square, eight bedroom house on half an acre the next day, and again on the weekend. It was only fifteen minutes down the road from where we were living, but in a much more secluded area. WH’s brother within almost-walking-distance, fresh air and native animals. (Yes! We get koalas. Yes! They make a LOT of noise and yes, they have very big, sharp claws) No pub in this town, no supermarket, no milk after 8.30pm. (These days we don’t even have a petrol station!) Aah, how quaint. What a lovely little bush town for my boys to grow up in. We put in an offer, not bothering with a building inspection – WH knew his stuff. A week after deciding on a whim that we needed a new challenge, we were presented with the biggest one of our lives.
Welcome to renovation hell, Wrangles family.
Three months and our first experience with selling a house later, we moved in. The new home had a bit of a funny smell, and wasn’t left all that clean for us, every room was painted a different pastel colour and carpeted individually. That’s a nice way of saying each room had a different second-hand carpet in it. Nine different carpets, actually. Plus four different floor tiles and pinky-yellow linoleum in the kitchen/dining. Nice.
Three weeks later we found the termites. Nasty little fuckers, eating my brand new old house from the inside out, before I’d even thrown the housewarming party. There were holes in the walls of the room I was using for a pantry, because there wasn’t one in the kitchen and my side-by-side fridge-freezer didn’t fit anyway. So I did what any curious nutter would do, and made a home-made termite farm. I put clear tape over the biggest of the holes, and measured, day by day for a week just how much the bastards could destroy. WH ruined my fun a week later when he tried to poison us by DIYing the termite fumigation.
The first year, we didn’t do a lot of renovating. Everyone tells you not to. Coz, you know, you should live in it first. Figure out your needs. I painted a few of the rooms, in fact, my boys got murals in their rooms. Why the hell not? Nothing else matched. Number one son got an underwater mural, then a Harry Potter room a year later. Number two son got a jungle room, complete with acrobatic monkeys. We put up new fencing. We repaired a multitude of leaks in the ceiling that sent torrents of water running down the walls in bad weather. I discovered we were growing mushrooms in two of the bathrooms. We had a thirty metre pine tree lopped before it fell in a storm and crushed us. We got rid of a few fruit trees that were positioned badly in the middle of the lawn. We pulled down the old McMansion of a cubby house and began work on a new one. Began being the important word there.
We knocked down a few walls, put in a new entry hall with fancy niches and lighting and cool front door. Everything was going to be modern in this house, different from the last.
Modern in a Gothic/Nautical kind of way, that is.
We tried to figure out how we could put in a new kitchen, the most important room in the house. As it was, not only was the food kept in another room, but the dishwasher was too. That was in the dining room. Then I discovered living in the bush means mice. Mice like living in old ovens that never get used, apparently. They chew on the gas and electrical wires. I decided the best thing to do was turn a room that was currently unused (but we think was once a parent’s retreat) into the kitchen. All it would take was knocking down a wall from the loungeroom. Perfect, except that it was at the far end of the house to where the gas and water were.
Then I found out I had a surprise baby on the way. Suddenly, that new kitchen at the other end of the house was very, very necessary. WH swung into superhero motion, and I got me a lovely new kitchen (with a walk-in pantry! A walk-in appliance cupboard! An oven that worked!) where the spare room used to be. The dining room was also renovated. That became our new bedroom. The old kitchen was divided up. Part of it is now the ensuite. Part of it is a walk-in robe just for me. WH has his own (smaller) one. All of this was built by the time Son Number 3 arrived.
In the two and half years since, we have started, but sadly not finished, the following:
What was our original bedroom was going to be my dream library. You know, with the floor to ceiling shelving. But it looks like it won’t be big enough for my collection of books and DVD’s. It will make a great dining room. The stairs have been moved from the middle of the house to where my old wardrobe was. The old stairwell downstairs is now a wide hallway, upstairs it is storage for my art supplies. Our original ensuite is now a halfway-pulled-apart powder room. It’s going to be WH’s study. The old pantry (termite city) is a toy/art/music room for the boys, except I’m going to take it over in a couple of weeks, because the room I have as my writing cave upstairs is being turned into our NEW new bedroom, because son number 3, who is now almost 3 years old, has never had his own bedroom. We knocked down too many walls. The other room upstairs that I use for as my little bookbindery (did I mention I have lots of hobbies?) is going to be our retreat, and the storage area for my art stuff will be a walk in robe and another new ensuite. The first new ensuite will be extended and turned into a family bathroom for the boys. (Are you still with me?) The big boys are currently sharing a bedroom, as we recently extended their rooms to be larger than ours, but they need re-plastering and at least ONE cupboard. Wardrobes would be a luxury. Son number 2 should be moving into his vastly improved bedroom sometime this year. We built a new laundry at the kitchen end of the house, so the old one is pretty much used as a bedroom for our two Weimaraners, except they much prefer human bedrooms, thanks very much. There’s also an old toilet, bathroom and a funny little room with just a shower down the end that tastes so good to the termites, but all that will have to be demolished soon and rebuilt due to damage. The plan is for all those odd rooms to become to become one big rumpus room.
There are parts of the ceiling where I can watch the stars and exposed wires are taped to most walls, out of reach of little hands. The kid’s lounge has exposed beams that aren’t meant to be that way, and plastered walls only half completed. We pulled off half the front veranda when we got the electricity company to come and move the box, and we also built a ramp for a wheelchair –bound family member. We pulled off some of the yellow log cladding, and currently that’s still a nice bright blue. The only colour blue-board comes in, apparently. Eventually, that’ll have some render slapped over it.
We’ve replaced much of the floor, which we found was either rotting or bowed or both. Right now it’s just painted flooring, but we’ll be laying floating floorboards one day. Most of the windows are going too – they’re crooked. The ceilings are all being replaced one by one, mainly because the plaster is collapsing or bowing or just really badly done in the first place. We’ve replaced two of the air conditioners and the wood heater. Only one heater and two air cons to go.
The only room in the house that has a finished paint-job right now is our current bedroom, the one that son number 3 is taking over soon (therefore I will have to repaint it, 3 year old style).
We did put in an above-ground pool last summer, but of course, only managed half the decking. The fencing isn’t quite finished either, all though it is safe and secure for the little people.
I’m still hoping the half acre of grass will miraculously turn itself into a self-sustaining garden, complete with raised beds for all the vegies I’d like to grow. A few trees and a couple of chooks would be nice as well, but I don’t want to be needy.
It’s been an interesting ride so far, this renovation thing. It has put pressure on WH’s on my marriage like I never dreamed possible. But in many ways, the journey together has been fun; it’s let the silly out in us. The creative duo who like nothing more than dreaming outside the square. I’ve found I’m far messier than I’d like to admit, but then, not having a cupboard for linen for five people will do that. And without proper ceilings or walls or floors, the dust does tend to spread itself around. I’ve also found I’m much more likely to make-do; to turn a blind eye and just not see the mess until someone visits unexpectedly.
But absolutely the most important thing I’ve learnt so far on this journey is that it just doesn’t matter. None of it. Not the holes in the wall or floor. Not the rooms that are so full of damp we never go into them. Not the fact that we’re brilliant at starting new projects but virtually incapable at finishing them. It doesn’t matter that visitors would always comment on my cute little weatherboard house with its quaint federation touches; the only comments I get about this house relate to the sheer size of it, or my eclectic style that mixes mermaids and a brass diving helmet with gargoyles and other scary-looking dead-type stuff in between all the toys. What really matters is learning you can still raise happy, healthy, creative and intelligent children in a house full of love, fun and silliness, no matter what it looks like.
Death, Dying and other Dirty Words
So, here we are. Blog Numero Uno. For months I’ve been umming and ahhing about what to write. Do I give the big introduction, tell you all about me? Do I tell you how badly I want to be a writer when I finally grow up? Do I write about all the things in my life that brought me to this point? Or maybe the challenges of finding time with three small children to put words on paper?
Ho-hum. Seriously, I’m just not that interesting.
What I really want to blog about is this: Death.
Yep, I’m going straight for the jugular. No pun intended. At all. In fact, I probably write about the subject of death far too often, I guess most ‘normal’ folk don’t think it is, in fact, a normal subject to be – dare I say it – actually interested in.
Now, I’m not talking about death in fiction. I’m not referring to the fact that one of the characters in my novel-in-progress is, umm, not exactly living. I want to write about real death. The one that happens to all of us eventually. The kind of death that is looming right now, over the heads of my family like a thunderous cloud.
My Dad is dying.
I’ve already written about this numerous times. Most of my friends have read about the details of the horrible disease that is robbing my father of the incredibly full life he once led. Right now, I won’t be going into the ins and outs of his illness. Maybe I’ll save it for another day, maybe not.
I want to write about society’s attitude toward death, how we (the living) are supposed to cope with them (the dying).
Before I go any further, I would like to acknowledge two people: authors Karen R Brooks, and her friend, Sara Douglass. These amazing women inspired this blog. I follow Karen on Facebook, and, via the wonders of the keyboard and the inbox, have been fortunate to meet a real-life angel. She recently posted a blog written by Sara, who is extremely ill, on the subject of The Silence of Dying. Sara writes about society’s attitudes toward terminal illness, and how we expect the dying to remain stoic and strong. We often comment with admiration about how ‘they’ never complained, ‘remained upbeat to the end’, and, it turns out, being the ones in fact, who comfort those that will go on living.
What the hell is wrong with us?
Why do we expect this? Why do we admire those who never complain, never voice their fears; why is it so often the sufferers who find themselves in the situation of having to comfort their loved ones when they are given the heart-breaking news? Why don’t we talk about death with the dying? Is it because it’s so painful? And if it is because of the pain of watching a loved one wither away, why do we find it so hard to discuss our grief with them before they’re gone?
More importantly, why don’t we discuss their own grief, their own fears with them?
Sara wrote of her frustration of being told to ‘think positively’. Yep, there’s so much to be positive about when you’ve been told you only have X amount of time to live <insert eye roll here>. Instead, society dictates that we worry about the people who will be left behind, how difficult it is to care for someone with a debilitating illness (remember, I write from experience here). We wonder just how the carers cope, how hard it must be for them. (Disclaimer: Of course I also worry about how my Mum copes. She’s Wonder-Woman dressed as a Special School teacher). We encourage the dying to be bright and happy and keep up-beat, all for our own selfish sake. We don’t want to have to deal with their reality – the fact that they might actually be feeling like utter shit, are scared, in pain, sick and tired of it all – and fed-up with the expectation our society places on ‘them’ to be strong, no matter what horrors illness or treatment may throw in their faces.
The reality is, of course, we’re all going to die. We hope it will be quick and painless. But chances are, most of us won’t get hit by that bus, or slip away quietly in our sleep unexpectedly. Chances are, in this day and age of medical wonders, that we will bump heads with a terminal disease one way or another. Without doubt, we’re all going to have experience losing a loved one in this manner. So why the silence? Why do we mourn so privately, both before and after the event? Why do we expect those AT THE VERY CENTRE of our grief to behave in this silent manner?
The answer, so far as I can tell, is fear. Fear of exposing our true selves, and fear of not knowing what to say. Fear of upsetting the patient. Fear of our reaction to the way they may look or behave. But guess what? That person - you know, the one who’s actually sick - is generally aware of it. They know the reality. They know they are dying. They might even want to talk about it. What they may not want to do is pat you on the shoulder and say: “There, there, it’ll all be okay. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.” Because it’s not okay.
Sadly, our family (like many others in this situation) has had personal experience with the way so-called friends drop off the face of the earth when the reality of death comes knocking. I’m sure most of them use the excuse that they want to remember Dad how he was, not the shell he has become. Terminal illness is not pretty, in fact it’s downright ugly, uncomfortable and sometimes embarrassing. But it’s real. And, although very sick, my Dad is still very much alive. He’s aware his condition makes people uneasy, makes them squirm and thank God it’s not them in his place. But he doesn’t complain, in fact, he never mentions it. He remains stoic (of course) in the face of this desertion.
I’m far from perfect so far as all this goes. Sara’s blog was a wake-up call for me. I care for Dad every Monday, and believe me, there have been plenty of Sunday evenings where I wonder how I’ll cope the next day. Selfishly, I wonder how I’ll get through the next degrading step in his illness, what to do if something happens while he’s in my care. But one thing I have been lucky enough to do is bond with him during our two years of Mondays – I’ve gotten to know him better than I had in the previous 35 years of my life. Not just as my Dad, the strong, traditional provider, but as a kind, loving man whom I admire greatly. I’ve found out things about him that I never would have otherwise. Who knew we shared a fascination with Vampires and other scary things that go bump in the night? Or what about our love of TV shows like Sanctuary, Smallville or the X-Files? I even introduced him to Buffy the Vampire Slayer back when he could see a bit better. He’s never been perfect, nor would I want him to be. His illness may have attached itself to him, but it’s not him. It doesn’t define him. It might own his body, but it doesn’t own who he is.
We’ve touched lightly on the subject of his funeral - you know - the easy stuff like music (Kenny Rogers – The Gambler) and place of burial. But I’ve neglected to find out how tiny and insignificant he must be feeling right now, how it feels to have his life snatched from under him far too early. All we seem to do is things TO him – we spoon-feed him his lunch, dress him, wipe his hands and face like a baby, clean his nose and place his pills in on his tongue for him. Doing, doing, doing. Never listening.
But I will be. Listening, that is. Thanks to Karen and Sara, I’ll encourage him to scream and yell, and if it were still possible for him to kick – well, I’d encourage that too. It’s not too late for my terminally ill father to know it’s okay to be pissed off at the universe for the way he’s going to die.
It’s also not too late for me to be there for him while he does.
Amanda
Thank you Karen and Sara for allowing me to publish this with your permission. Thank you also to my Dad, who has given his blessing for me to write about him and his illness.
Here's the link to Sara's blog: http://nonsuchkitchengardens.com/wordpress/
and Karen’s website: http://www.karenrbrooks.com
Persia Bloom - Scarlet Stiletto Winning Short Story by Clan Destine Writer Amanda Wrangles
We're really happy that we've been able to post a copy of Amanda Wrangles' 2009 Scarlet Stilleto Award Winning Story - Persia Bloom. Follow the link to read a tremendous example of slow burner crime short story writing.
And there's still more on the way.
