I ran into Joe Segal, the sculptor, at the grocery store and he asked how my addition was coming along. “Just a bit more trim,” I said. “Only thing is it’s making the old part of the house look even older. And I’ve got a lot of projects I’m going to have to finish now.”
“Ah, don’t worry,” he said, before uttering what should be the motto of every homeowner. “Just use your imagination and finish them in your mind.”
Spoken like a true artist. And strange as it seems, it was oddly comforting.
It’s been weighing on me as we near the end — those handful of things I’ve never finished in the old part. Who am I fooling? It’s not a couple — there are dozens of little and big things. And the more complete the addition becomes, the less complete the old house looks — like it’s never been finished, and never will be. Suddenly it’s so obvious and glaring.
Like the trim in the dining room that simply stops. Why did I start trim and never finish? Did I run out? Was there a fire or a tiger attack? Was it meant to be that way? Sometimes I do that, thinking up elaborate excuses to hand my wife for why I didn’t finish something: “I like the symbolism,” I will say. “The meaning is complex and deep, as if saying that we as humans are never quite whole. We are always in search of that one, final piece to complete us. Plus, I got tired and ran out of beer.”
So many things: The plaster on the ceiling I didn’t finish. The 2-inch square that still needs a coat of paint. The squeaky spot in the floor and the screw holes in the utility room door I never sanded down.
None of it was all that noticeable before. It didn’t stand out or look that out-of-place. But pair it up with a brand new addition and the old part — much of which goes back almost a century — jumps out and shakes you: “Finish me, you overcooked pole bean!”
The trim is straight and neat in the addition — crisp and clean. In the old part it runs like a roller coaster, twisting and turning as it snakes along the wall. The new part is airtight and well insulated, while in the old part the glass lets in a breeze and the only insulation comes from the pecan shells squirrels deposited in the walls. (That and the 18 coats of paint that have been slapped on over the years.) The plaster is smooth in the new, but like a rolling sand dune in the old. Floors flat in the new, and wavy like the ocean in the old. They will make you seasick to walk them.
And the new is all so oddly level. Not so in the old house where if you rolled a marble downhill, it would pick up so much speed that it could blast a hole through the first wall it meets.
It can be slightly schizophrenic traveling between the two. Although, the funny thing is they fit together so well. Houses have character, and each wing of mine has its own personality. They blend well in the important ways, yet set themselves apart, like say two brothers might. For instance, my brother is big like a grizzly bear and rough around the edges while I look like a pair of tweezers and bathe twice a day. But we get along great, each in our own unique way.
So goes my house. But it’s not how the two mesh that’s at issue — it’s that I have so much to finish in the old part. The end of the addition really just seems like the beginning of bringing the rest of my house up to snuff. So bring on the imagination — I have a lot of work to do.