Hopewell, Ohio
Congratulations Abby!
Abby’s Bio:
My most vivid memories as a child are of the local library and the stack of books I’d haul home every month, thinking that someday I’d write that great novel. I have yet to write the first word of said novel—apparently because I’ve been too busy living my life, which has provided all kinds of great material of the non-fiction sort. This is my first major contest entry, but the editors of Women in the Outdoors Magazine did actually pay me real money for an article I wrote a few years ago, so I now call myself a published author, looking for more.
When I’m not putting skewed memories to paper, I go to my day job as a death claims examiner for a large insurance company. They frown on using too much creativity, humor, or dicey language in our correspondence concerning the dearly departed, so I’m forced to find my outlet elsewhere.
I live in rural Ohio with my husband of 25 years, who provides me with yet more material. We have two pretty cool sons, an ornery little granddaughter, donkey, mule and a large and grumpy Doberman. When we’re not tending to our five acres of paradise, we’re hanging at our river cabin, which attracts characters that really deserve their own book. Besides writing, I enjoy kayaking, photography, cooking and enjoying a cold beverage with friends and family, as the river flows by.
Please come visit me at http://abbybythepound.typepad.com/notwrite/
Dust Bunnies
It's been a twenty year love/hate relationship between this house and me. I was twenty-four when we bought the place. It was new, clean, and uncluttered, though a tad small—but all we needed. We moved in as naive newlyweds with two babies and few possessions.
Having grown up an auctioneer's daughter in an old farmhouse, I naturally decorated our new abode in rustic country—very popular at the time. I was recreating my childhood with every antique knick-knack that found its way into our home. I was also unknowingly re-creating my mother's obsession with stuff. Neither my mom nor I, however, had any obsession with cleaning this stuff.
The years passed and we managed to raise our children and hang on to our marriage within those walls, which seemed to grow smaller every day. My lovely old antiques were now just dusty objects, taking up precious space. I looked around one day, taking in the worn woodwork and nicked linoleum that had faded with time. The closet doors wouldn't close without giving its contents a good shove, and the basement was an unspeakable horror of moldy junk and cobwebs. Where was I when my house grew old and overstuffed? How could I have let this happen? I turned to the mirror and my attention shifted from the surrounding mess to the person staring back at me—also a mess. Like my home, I was unkempt, with too many issues. My gut, like the closet contents, had to be pushed into my jeans before zipping, and my roots needed maintenance. I realized that my body and my house were depressed and overweight. I had been overfeeding us both, for emotional reasons, and it had to stop.
So the clean-up now commences as I take a step forward to get control of my life and home, finally realizing just how closely each are affected by the other. I boldly start with my bedroom closet, but it's a bad move—I'm not ready to admit that my fifteen year old, size six jeans will never again grace my middle-aged butt. I move to the bookcase, instead, and ditch the book on getting control of your debt (I bought it with my credit card). Next to go is the attention deficit disorder paperback (I put it down three years ago after browsing two chapters). I quickly fill up one trash bag and triumphantly march down the hall, tripping over a laundry basket and gym bag.
The antiques are next. I hold on to the family heirlooms, dusting them off and putting some away for safekeeping. The items acquired at yard sales and auctions, holding no sentimental value, are put in a box—never to return. How long can one family stare at a rusty, non-functioning eggbeater, before the magic is gone? (Twenty years, apparently) I save my great-aunt's antique china and move it to a more accessible location in the kitchen cupboard. I can still hear her voice, ten years earlier, sternly advising me to use her beautiful dishes every day—not to save for special occasions.
As the weeks pass it becomes easier: lidless Tupperware, VHS tapes, half-melted candles and unmatched coffee mugs all make their way off the premises. In time, I even summon up the courage to toss some clothes. I silently shed a tear as I let go, reluctantly, of my oh-so-forgiving elastic-waist capris that got me through many pre-menstrual days. I throw out my favorite sexy bra, worn years before my breast reduction. My husband mourns with me, but for different reasons. Last, but not least, I fold nine pairs of "mommy jeans" for the Goodwill pile.
While moving the heavy boxes and bags out of the house, I feel the psychological weight lifting from my shoulders and I make plans to replace the worn carpet and peeling wallpaper. As I breathe new life into these tired walls, I begin to feel my own spirits lifting. The house is suddenly alive again, and so am I. Now that I've unearthed the computer, I've started writing again. I've resumed wearing makeup, too, because I can find it. I'm wearing clothes I didn't know I had, and eating off fine china instead of chipped plastic. Life is good.
The path I had envisioned twenty years ago isn't my reality these days, but in the process of over-hauling our home, I accidentally found myself—hiding beneath the clutter and dust bunnies.
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