Dear Neighbor,
It’s September. How was your summer? Mine was uniquely unnerving, as I was under house arrest. Not for anything I’d done, but for the missteps and carelessness of others. The perpetrators include shoddy construction workers, for failure to install drain tiles properly; a now-deceased architect, who certainly knew about permits and inspections but apparently didn’t care; Mother Nature, who did her thing and rained; Immigration and Customs Enforcement, for decimating skilled work crews; and microscopic airborne spores, possessing a chemical process I can neither understand nor explain.
A Starburst Behind the Bed
It all began in February when I was cleaning the basement bedroom, which was part of an underground addition we did some 20 years ago for my husband, an emergency room physician, who needed a soundproof bunker to retreat to after overnight shifts. I say “we” in the loosest sense. I lived here and was half-owner of the house. Other than that, the project was emphatically his.
Behind the bed was a starburst of black mold. By March, much of the interior addition had been taken down to the studs, the original basement filled with bedroom furniture. I was in for the long haul. The mold was grander than anticipated, but nothing could be done until May, when things warmed up and the exterior mitigation began.
The rest of the house, nearly 100 years old, went merrily along, doing its house thing, unscathed. My house arrest was bewildering and unsettling. Home was not home. With guys here more miss than hit, endless questions, phone calls and serial checks being written, I couldn’t go anywhere. Not, as planned, to Italy to see a friend. Not to New York to visit my daughter Lily.
Ten Seconds Behind Bars
It’s not like I’d never been in a prison. I toured Alcatraz in 1993 and saw Al Capone’s swanked-out cell, B-181. One of these is not like the others! Two of my cousins were nurses at the women’s prison in Shakopee, and I toured it several years back on Friends and Family Day. The combined gym and workout area was amazing. Life Time Fitness could take notes. At the time, Daisy was college shopping, and the cell we toured was nicer than any dorm I’d seen.
In the 1980s I worked for a short spell with a forensic psychiatrist, interpreting for Spanish-speaking inmates at Stillwater State Prison. But I was always on the outside. Prison, in any form, means complete loss of control.
I remember: When I was a child, my parents were friends of Bob Dudley, a Northfield policeman, and his wife, Bernice. When Mr. Dudley was elected sheriff of Rice County and moved to Faribault, we visited them.
Their house was then connected to the county jail, and he took me, my siblings and some of his six kids on a tour. There were three cells, all empty, not unlike Sheriff Andy Taylor’s Mayberry jail whose only regular was Otis, the town drunk.
Ever the wag, Sheriff Bob asked us if we wanted to experience jail. Sure! He led us into a cell and shut the door. Clang! Every claustrophobic nerve in my body was on fire and I screamed, “Let us out!” Ten seconds behind locked bars before I even entered fifth grade was all it took to scare me straight.
Enter the J Crew
In May, there were gobs of guys I called the J Crew: two Jeremiahs, Jaden, Jeremy, Jeff and, before immigration enforcement performed its black magic, Jesús and José.
The day a backhoe appeared on the front lawn was like a stun gun to my soul. There was nothing I could do but follow their lead, write checks, and ply the J Crew with lemonade and cookies to keep them here and making progress.
I grew very fond of Jeremiah the Younger, a 26-year-old with an unparalleled work ethic. I’d watch him working steadily and knowledgeably, admiring his rare attributes.
Then, suddenly, about a month in, I decided to go with the flow and accept everything. I’d learned that when one goes to battle with reality, one loses. Always. Jeremiah had reminded me of this truth.
I read several books and discovered that my old pal since middle school, Eileen, watched “Jeopardy” each afternoon with her husband. I joined them via text and it became our shared happy half hour.
Once I strayed as far as Chaska for a baby shower.
Falling for the House Again
And then, one morning, I fell in love with the house all over again. The yard no longer looked like a landfill, and the sunlight in the upstairs hall seemed to shine beauty everywhere. I felt equal parts happy and ashamed.
Everything had shifted. Most of all, I felt grateful to be in a position where being stuck in my much-loved house was the biggest issue in my life.
This was the true reality check I needed, and it turned my internment into a therapeutic staycation.
— Dorothy
Dorothy Richmond writes for the Hill & Lake Press. She lives in Cedar-Isles-Dean.
