As someone who has always admired the nesting instinct in birds and small mammals but never understood the same impulses in humans, I should have viewed the idea of getting married -- and merging two households -- with some foreboding.
But it was a first marriage for both of us, and though my husband and I were by most standards getting married at a late age, I, at least, was naive.
I didn't give moving into his house of many years a second thought.
This'll be interesting, said my brother and sister, who have been married for years. The older you get, the harder it is. What will you do with all your stuff?
Stuff?
Home is where I grew up and where my parents live. It's a baby grand piano in the living room and a comfortable jumble of books piled on shelves everywhere.
It's where I go at Christmas and on the Fourth of July, where I watch football with my brothers, talk politics with my father, watch my mother in the garden.
Since leaving there, I've lived in 10 cities, five countries and who knows how many apartments and houses. To me, moving meant loading up the half-dozen bought or inherited antiques that really mattered, boxing the books, collecting the cats and throwing out much of the rest.
I'd always looked askance at those who spent hours, days, even years decorating and redecorating their homes. I'd scoffed (inwardly so as not to offend) at those who slaved over their lawns. I'd never bought a home -- despite the tax benefits -- because, I thought, Why buy? It will complicate the move.
The moving and merger part of marriage, I told myself, would be a breeze.
But no one told me that in marriage your Sue Grafton and Margaret Atwood books will disappear behind perfectly aligned tomes about the history of the Middle East -- his version of relaxing reads.
Not a soul mentioned that the pie cabinet found in a Pennsylvania barn and triumphantly refinished -- symbol, I'd thought, of a certain level of maturity -- will be relegated to the garage.
And no one, not even my mother, dared point out that my husband-to-be not only had bought a house long ago, but also had more furniture, more books, more beautiful rugs, more original artwork, and, all in all, far better taste than I.
He even had his own cat.
It's tough to argue that a full-length poster of Bruce Springsteen, no matter how lovingly framed, should replace original David Robert sketches of the Near East on the wall by the fireplace. Even I could see that my colorful ceramic animals, collected on adventures to New Delhi or Dublin or Key West, looked out of place among the hand-painted urns my husband bought in Jerusalem's Old City. And quite naturally, his cat, older and bigger than my two, retained full rights to the foot of our bed.
I began to feel like a very welcome, very comfortable visitor in what was now my own home.
Then it came to me. This was not so much a merger but a melding. All it required was a little finesse.
Out of the garage came my pie cabinet. On second thought, the cabinet blends in perfectly on the sun porch, and my pottery lion from Oaxaca looks nice on top. Next to it, my husband's bookcase provides a perfect, sunny spot for my plants. And my high-backed chair with the caned seat stands nearby -- in case anyone perusing the books gets a sudden, overwhelming urge to sit down and read.
I didn't think we could fit anything more on the sun porch, but the room seems friendlier somehow, remarked my husband.
Out of the guest bedroom came his Swedish furniture with its clean lines and spare look. In went the four-poster bed, the
dresser, the antique bedside table left me by my paternal grandmother. With winnowing, my mysteries fit nicely amid my husband's paperback novels on a tall, skinny bookshelf that he's had for years. Atop the dresser went another ceramic animal, (just one; you know what they say about discretion), this time a muted gold and green bird. On the bed went my fluffy white quilt and seven pillows.
I never thought that furniture could look good here, but it seems sort of warmer or something, observed my husband.
My cats curled up on their quilt with their pillows.
I was happy. Then I noticed that my husband's yard -- our yard -- was downright ugly. I put out pots of geraniums. No one can kill a geranium, I thought.
Then I added some impatiens. And some marigolds.
What are you doing out there? said my husband.
I'm digging, I answered. The lawn looked a bit ragged so I mowed it and tidied the hedges.
Then I planted some basil, lemon thyme and lavender. OK: I ripped out the pachysandra and put in some periwinkle and added Gerber daisies, tomatoes and a small bird feeder.
But the moment of truth came early last fall, when a neighbor brought me some bulbs.
They were white narcissus -- I looked them up in my new gardening book -- and they promised to be pretty so I went out and bought some more. While I was shopping, I picked up a few purple crocuses and paperwhites and miniature blue irises and blue and white anemones.
Well now, you know they won't come up for a while, not until spring, said my neighbor, who is beginning to know me quite well.
=1 That's OK, I thought. I'm not going anywhere.