When my mother died back in November, it became official: I now share custody of a house with my sister.
I've lived here since December 26, 1976. Thirty-seven years, minus a few years in Tallahassee and several months at Fort Jackson and Fort Gordon.
Before this one, we lived in 12 other houses and one apartment between my birth and my 9th birthday. I barely remember any of those; a scene here, a memory there. This is the first one my parents actually owned.
Now it's mine.
What the hell do I do with a house?
I've been pondering that. Part of me wants to gut the joint, put new wiring and plumbing into its 50-year-old walls, expand my microscopic bathroom, and add insulation all around. I'll settle for getting rid of the honking big vanity my mother put in my bathroom a few years ago.
The big thing, though, is the outside.
We have a freaking WHITE house. All the brickwork, all the wood trim, the fake-stucco'd cinder block planter...it's all bleached arctic snow-blind holy-crap white. NASA's contractors didn't use this much white paint on all their Saturn rockets combined.
Black fake shutters.
Not my favorite combination for a house. I've never liked it, but now I have no idea what colors to go with.
The "moon rocket" motif is out.
Don't have much of a lawn for me to tell the kids to keep off of.