The rain is a pitter patter outside. It hits fast and steady, and then slows down. It’s been off and on for at least three days now. You should see the world of Chicago - everything is turning green and blossoming. I decided to finish off this bottle of wine. It’s only two glasses, but I’m already warm. I wish someone would turn on the ceiling fan, but there is no one but me, and the dog, and the cat. I also decided to turn on Ryan Adams. I was craving a certain melancholy twang, and he just always seems to hit the spot.
Today felt like a tornado. I woke exhausted from a night of endless dreaming. I just can’t seem to get a handle on it lately, and I know it’s due to stress. I can’t quite remember all the dreams, but there is a resonance of terror and fear. I’ve always had dreams like this ever since I was a child. I am a stressed person, naturally. I worry. I worry that Nathan has gone in to his first overnight. What if something terrible happens? What if a crazy coked out trannie comes in and decides tonight it would be fun to throw acid on someone? Or worse? Or is there worse? I don’t know. See I am a stressed, worried person. It makes me older than I am. It really does.
I was saying today was a tornado. Before I knew it the work day was over, and I had sat through endless calls, a black out, seld-doubt, hilarity over commonalities of sleeping patterns, a minor claustrophobic moment, a crazy man spouting off the latest 20/20 (there was a woman that killed her husband with anti-freeze then she killed her other husband with anti-freeze, too…they think) on the bus - he would move every stop from seat to seat (yes I know mental illness is a huge crisis in this country, but every once in a while I’d like to get home and not be reminded of it, ya know?), fruit, and nothing but fruit for breakfast and lunch, and then it was 3 pm, and I had to rush home to see my husband (that’s what I like to call him these days even though we (as you know) aren’t going to be married for months) before he left for an overnight in the dreaded hell of Starbucks at Clark and Belmont (ie. the drug trafficing center of Chicago).
It seems I am fond of parenthesis today. Our landlord, the Bulgarian one who always and I mean always interrupts you just as you begin to speak, texted Nathan: Call me. He always does this. He has such terrible English that I can’t understand a word he is saying half the time. Let me be blunt, (I don’t care if this is a public forum or not) I hate this man. The mere fact that I hate him so much should warrant us need enough to move, but we haven’t. No, instead we recently decided to stay. We invested in making my garden more permanent (last year it was just a tiny block of ground), and Nathan as I’ve written built us a fence. It has added a level of privacy but also a home feeling to this place we have tried to make so. We also have made a big effort in the past month to get organized from donating old clothes and cds, to cleaning out closets and excess crap. Today I was just saying how excited I was to go home because the house was clean, and homey.
Then George decided to call and basically yell at Nathan like he is a child for building the fence. He says we must take it down, or his father will take it down once he is back from Bulgaria. What? Why? We’ve added value to your property. We care for it. We garden, we mow, we change the lights, we clean, we are more than accomodating. This man, however, should not be a landlord. For more than a year he has strung us on about a possible foreclosure, and that’s on top of us never having a working dishwasher, dryer or washer. Yes I understand these are all privileges, but they were listed in the description of this place when we moved in. We call him about them, and he says “Oh my Father will come see about it.” But his father never does. The washer was too full with quarters (we had to pay a dollar to wash) and so it wouldn’t wash anymore. We called him to come empty it out. Do you know what his father did when he came?! He hammered out the back of the washer, took all the money and now the washer is completely broken! It has been filled with water since February!
It is ridiculous. The man is ridiculous.
I have never seen Nathan so angry before. He cursed the man. How dare he speak to him like that. He is a grown man. I feel so terribly for Nathan. He is such a good man, a caring, loving man. And, I fear that Chicago has hardened him in ways I would have never wished for. He is not a city boy. But he moved here for me, and us. And now we are getting married. But I can’t tell you how much I would love for him to have his barn on some farm with art and breezes and open spaces and inspiration. I love him so much. I am a lucky girl for him to love me as much as he does.
I now look around this home we have built. I remember the first night we came here. We sat very close to where I am now in the living room. We were on the floor against a white wall, we laughed as our voices echoed, and enjoyed a bottle of wine. We thought, we’ve done it. This is it. We are here, we are home, we are together. What color would we paint the wall? Would we argue over decorating styles? How many times would we make love here? What kind of garden could we grow in the back? Would Tucker and Greta ever get along?
I love this house (as much as I despise the landlord), and even moreso I love the home we have built. And, yes we will build another somewhere, someday. It’s just that day may have to come sooner than expected.
….
by Tom Herde
The old blue school…it’s 150 years old! 
The Methodist Church
