My first home was in Brookside, at the corner of 60th and Cherry. It was a two-story shirt-waist built in 1915. It was exactly what I was looking for: it was older, had “character,” was structurally sound, and needed cosmetic work. It had been passed over by several people before me that had looked at it, but I didn’t even hesitate. It had all the basics I wanted and it had real potential. The potential was what I saw most. In fact, I remember that the most important aspect of every house I looked at then, and for every house I bought after that, was the potential they had. Even the one we built new.
If you have ever owned an older home, you have likely experienced something similar. It is why we buy older homes. We love that old wood, stone fireplace, antique fixture feel about them. And whatever challenges we may see in what we purchase is easily overlooked at the beginning. We assume those challenges are a part of the process and we also assume that we have the abilities to overcome them. If the plaster is falling off the walls in one of the bedrooms, we see that as a negotiation point at purchase, not as a problem. If the landscape looks like it has been neglected for years, we envision a couple of weekends of work and Voila! It’s a cover story for Better Homes and Gardens.
But the work and expense involved almost always turns out to be way more than we anticipated, once we really dig into the projects. That plaster wall, when it is peeled away for drywall replacement, often reveals rotted framing or termite damage. The weekends we figure it will take to fix up the landscape usually becomes a summer-long project that also eats up a few days of vacation as well. It never fails. It can be frustrating how much work and expense it gets to be after a while, and I remember many a project that tested my resolve. But somehow, I got through them all, and in the end I was pretty happy with the final result. With houses, I was pretty lucky.
My memories of those houses and all the hard work I put into them, oddly enough, was somehow surfaced the other day when I was examining a relationship of someone close to me and re-examining my own as well. Understanding things—in particular, choices—I think can sometimes be done by looking at patterns and similarities in the way we use them, make them, or apply them in different situations. So when I think about how I have always chosen my relationships, I wonder if I can learn something from the way I have made choices in other aspects of my life. In other words, what can I learn from how I have chosen homes that helps me understand what I need to learn about how I have chosen relationships?
Originally I thought about this in reference to this other person. I was totally perplexed by what she had gotten herself involved in trying to accomplish. The person she was involved with had a plethora of issues, both physical and emotional, and I say that knowing that I am not without my own. But, by her own admission, this guy has a ton of work to do, and he has health complications that make his challenges even more difficult to overcome. They met a couple of years ago and then married soon after, and not long into the marriage his challenges began to grow in depth and complexity. It was not long into the marriage that it all became overwhelming for the both of them, and he exited stage left. She moved on and filed for divorce.
But recently, he has reappeared, and he is asking for reconciliation of their marriage. She is considering it. The question that first came to my mind, and which I am yet to express to her, is: “Why?” That was followed by “Why would someone who has been hurt so much by another person let them back into their life?” Then came “Why would you want to take all that on?” Next was “What is it about this person that made her choose him as a relationship and husband?” Eventually, I got to “Why is it she chose someone like this?” She has a history of similar choices.
My deduction and concern: she chooses relationships like I choose houses. I think she sees a diamond in the rough and believes that if she puts in the work, it will be a great relationship and he will be a better person. The only problem is, that choice means that he also has to be willing to do the work and that he is willing and able to change into what she is hoping he will be. I think that last part is the hardest part for us to recognize sometimes, that we ourselves cannot change people, only they can, and that we may be making a major mistake in wanting them to change into what it is we need.
But how many times do we overlook, fail to see, minimize, or ignore the crumbling drywall or weedy lawn that may be obviously inherited in a relationship? Or worse: how many times do we see it, but see it as something we can change about someone, that we can overcome? Why should we feel the need to change someone? And if we do mistakenly take all that on, are we willing to bear the potential cost it brings to the quality of our own life? Will we bail out, or will we see it through to the end? Do we possess the tenacity? I think the worst thing we can do is to give someone in that situation the assurance of our commitment, and then exit when the project gets too tough or more costly than we estimated.
In trying to process all these questions about this person, and in drawing out the analogy of picking and buying a house, I suddenly recognized that I had already connected the dotted line between myself and these same questions. Oops! I hate it when I do that.
When I met Michelle, we had both just ended relationships which were not healthy for us. That in itself was not the core issue that likely caused our eventual split, but I think it was a factor. In that early romantic stage of euphoria that begins every relationship, I think I overlooked things in her and she overlooked things in me, and we both overlooked things together that would, in the end, tumble the house we tried to build together. Or maybe we didn’t overlook them, but instead took a look at them and told ourselves that they were the dripping faucets which could be easily fixed. It was an easy thing to do when we started off together, and we both just came from something bad. By comparison, everything looked great, and hope and optimism was aplenty.
But unlike houses, I can’t fix, save, or change anyone. I’m not sure I can even fix, save, or change myself. And no one can fix in me things they feel make us incompatible. Nor would I want anyone to try. It is not a good approach, seeing someone as an investment that you can change, or grow, or develop to fit your needs. Recognizing all that is probably an important step toward being comfortable in your own skin, but more importantly, it’s a bigger step toward healthy choices in any potential relationship.
One of the things I have learned about older homes is that they all have gremlins. There is the too-small closet, the squeaking staircase, the quirky plumbing, or the stubborn window sash in every one. Some of these things are things I came to love and appreciate about each one of them, even though they really frustrated me at times. It’s part of the old home character I wanted. I chose it. And so long as it is only the small things I had to live with, it just added to life, really.
But I’m not up to any major renovation jobs anymore. I’m not sure it was ever smart to think I was.
Originally published 2/21/2010.
© 2010 Cody Kilgore. All Rights Reserved worldwide under the Berne Convention. May not be copied or distributed without prior written permission.
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