EAST WILLOW PLACE

Spring Break hit hard this year. 

The house we had giddily reserved for almost a week for our large young family was on a small island accessible by ferry. It had sufficient beds, a wood-burning fireplace, and a hot tub in the yard. We were anticipating a week of restful quiet, beach-combing, game nights, cuddling up with books, and soaking in the hot tub while hearing the wind sigh in the towering pines overhead. 

Alas.

Upon arrival on a gray and windy afternoon, we discovered that the narrow, steeply downhill driveway was covered with thick pine needles and did not allow us to turn or park our large van in the garage – firstly because we had no space on either side from the bare scratchy shrubs and row of thick evergreen trees on either side, and secondly because we would never have fit in the low, small garage anyway. No matter. We parked with the van pointed down on the slope, and unloaded our bins and bags of belongings, running in and out multiple times. 

The initial smell of the house was mildew. The smell only strengthened as we began to explore. Downstairs was worst – where the two rooms I was going to put six of my eight kids were. The two rooms each had a double bed and a trundle, and were connected by a bathroom in the middle. The bathroom doors in the bedrooms on either side were glass, but had been thoughtfully covered by curtains of fabric – allowing modesty but not stopping any light. And the light switches for the bathroom were in each bedroom – allowing anyone on either side to turn on or off the light at any moment, regardless of what the person actually using the bathroom expected or needed.

As my husband and I made up the trundle beds, we noticed that the floors were rather dusty and the mattresses were covered with hair. Human hair, and not just from the head. A small pill was also found in one of the beds – not one I could readily identify – and my husband quickly threw it away with disgust. Trying to erase these things from my thoughts, we headed upstairs to continue unpacking and settling in.

The main floor bathroom where each of my children were told to wash their hands had another glass door with another semi-private cloth curtain. The soap dispenser shot soap directly outward rather than down, so some of my kids came out with soap sprayed on their chests or arms.  

The dishwasher wasn’t actually attached to the cupboards or counter, so when my husband tried to help me open the door (because I was unable to wrench it open despite trying several times), the entire dishwasher tipped forward so his thumb was caught and wedged between the metal casing of the dishwasher and the top of the counter – still without the door open. Maybe I didn’t need to think about dishes yet.

Upstairs, I was surprised to note that the master bedroom was actually a loft, complete with two little nooks with twin mattresses for two more children and a full prospect of the living room, and no door at the top of the stairs. The master bathroom kept the loft theme, with an open space above the bathroom door (again, fully glass, covered with a thin see-through gauzy cloth curtain) that continued all the way through to the toilet and shower – allowing any sounds or activity therein to be discernible by anyone on the upper and main floor at any time. But then, privacy is highly overrated. 

The wiring was suitable for the age of the house – which is to say, it was outdated and quirky, with switches for various rooms or areas in mysterious, non-intuitive locations, sometimes on other floors altogether – one switch for the light in the master shower on the top floor was actually downstairs on the main floor, near the kitchen. The fairy lights strung fancifully in the little nooks upstairs were adorable – except that one set’s wiring had been disconnected from the plug altogether, and the end of the wire was stuffed under the mattress. Nothing like a fire to keep one warm at night.

Trying to get supper ready, I headed down to the kitchen to begin preparations. After setting a stack of fresh napkins on the table, I heated the oven and made the salad. When I returned to the table to start setting it, I was surprised to see a clear black handprint on the top of the stack of napkins. All the children denied it – but the culprit was easily found, since their entire hand was coated in a greasy film of black soot. What had they been touching?! I shrieked in alarm – and discovered that it had been the table itself. Apparently the chimney had just been serviced – there was an invoice and a report on the counter – and we found that the entire main living area and kitchen were coated with a thin layer of soot. The yellow cloth we found to use to clean came up with a black streak with every swipe. Running a palm over the kitchen counter, the palm turned grey-black almost instantly. 

When I then inspected the other kids’ hands and socks, a layer of grey-black grime was evident. All our kids were immediately advised to stop touching things (because apparently I was hallucinating about their ability to actually obey this order) and to replace their shoes, which they had removed. 

I was horrified and grossed out. I began texting the owner – only to be interrupted by a piercing scream of pain. My daughter stood in the doorway of the bathroom, bent double and shrieking in agony – she had been shot in the eye by a stream of soap. Since she was unable to see or move, my husband and I ran to her and dragged her over to the kitchen sink. We began an attempt at emergency eye-washing with cool water – while she continued to scream and writhe and fight us, unable to process or listen to anything we said, swollen eye shut tight and face contorted. Her eye remained swollen, pink, and weepy the remainder of our stay.

It was my breaking point. At this juncture this property was beyond redemption for me. 

I communicated to the owner that we were too uncomfortable with the cleanliness (or lack thereof) of the house and would not able to stay – we would be leaving in the morning. She was apologetic and understanding, and quickly reimbursed us, but now we had to start repacking up everything we had just unpacked – which was a lot, since I had apparently excelled at efficiency, to my chagrin. 

My husband, searching online, found another large home nearby – the only other option we had seen that would accommodate us – and made reservations as it was, miraculously, still available for the dates we needed.

In the morning, we ate hurriedly and then, despite our children’s best efforts to sabotage our departure, managed to get everything reassembled and shuffled back into the bins we had come with, only breaking one glass bottle in the process.

Then my husband received news: The second reservation he had made was actually not available. At all. It had been listed by mistake, and the property was being used for storage for all the furniture from another property that had flooded the year before. So sorry for the inconvenience! 

Stunned, sick at heart, we quickly searched again online for any other available place that would work for our immediate housing needs and numbers – and came up empty. I began to weep as I continued packing up, facing the inevitable – we would be returning home after this disappointing and negative experience. Spring Break was a bust. The children who did not cry were pale and silent with disappointment – and that hurt my heart worse.

Then my resourceful husband located a possible option at a town we had visited a couple years before – but it was about four hours’ drive away. If we were willing to make it, it was available immediately and was spacious enough for us and had a hot tub to boot. Eyes wide with sudden galvanized hope, our packing went into fifth gear. Flinging the last coat and bag into the van and shuffling the last child in, we climbed into the van to make our way back to the ferry line – perhaps we could make the one leaving in about ten minutes! 

In the meantime, the gray and sullen sky had begun to rain. 

Engine revving, we lurched forward – then in trying to reverse up that steep driveway covered with (now wet and slippery) pine needles, the tires spun out and we couldn’t move backwards up the final stretch of the driveway. Three times, four, five – each time we tried, we spun out, tires whirling and smoking, engine roaring, never reaching the top of the driveway and the freedom of the lane beyond. Panicky thoughts of being trapped at this house began to rise in my mind.

I leapt out of the van, running back to the house for a broom – coming back to try to make a dent in the thick spongy layer of decomposing pine needles, eventually frantically scraping at them with the dustpan, since the broom was ineffective. My husband, now worried about the transmission and thinking we would need to call a tow truck to get out, called out the window for me to get off the driveway – he would try one more time and didn’t want to run me over!  Using only the back-up camera, he gunned it into reverse one more time – and lurched and spun, and despite more skidding and roaring, made it up to the top and backed into the lane! Flinging the broom back inside the house, I leapt into the van and we took off. Adrenaline pumping, we drove quickly and carefully down the winding narrow island roads to the ferry dock – only to see the cars from the most recent ferry driving past – the ferry back to the mainland was about to leave! 

We drove down to the waiting queue and were the last in line – and already mourning, I saw that the ferry was mostly full. Surely there would be no more space for our large van – and the next ferry was another hour and a half later. In shock, my mind couldn’t process what this meant.

But then – astonishingly, the people loading the ferry were waving brusquely at us to move forward! There was one last rectangle of space on board – and our van filled it exactly. Beaming broadly, I pumped my fist victoriously at the wonderful woman who had motioned us aboard, wishing I could leap out and hug her in gratitude. She merely smiled, clearly humbly unaware of how magnificent she was.

It was a glorious departure.

And when we finally arrived at the third reservation, the simple discoveries that the house smelled clean, there wasn’t a smear of soot in sight, the master bedroom and bathroom were private, the dishwasher opened in a most unexciting way, and that there were clean and plentiful hair-free beds for each and every child were causes for rejoicing and gratitude. 

Nothing like an incredible dose of perspective to create a heart of thanksgiving.

And create the firm resolve to just stay home next Spring Break.

_{Have you had any kooky misadventures these past few weeks? Sign up for my emails and keep in touch to let me know how you’re doing! And please share this post! Thanks a bunch.}

Wear your crown. Carry your sword. – Maria Miller