My Million-Dollar Donkey (22 page)

Things bloom in the city the same way they bloom in the country. Flowers. People. Ideas.

For me, now,
doubts
were in bloom.

After months of my dropping blatant hints, Mark announced that he was going to build me a barn. This wasn’t because he was disturbed by my toiling over animals in the sleet, rain, and mud (after all, I made that bed myself by assembling an animal entourage). No, he just wanted to provide additional work for the boys building our house so they wouldn’t take a job elsewhere and become unavailable for the next building project he had in mind.

“Perhaps we should hold off. Money is tight and the payments we’re supposed to be getting from the Smiths have been so irregular,” I said. “I’m worried the school may be failing now.”

“You’ve been whining about a barn for months, and now that I’m giving you one, you’re complaining?”

“Of course not. I just think we should be a bit conservative under the circumstances.”

He sighed, clearly exasperated with my endless lack of enthusiasm for his generosity. I should be overjoyed with his plans, considering how badly I wanted a barn.

Mark made clear that he was in charge of any and all building projects, but I’d been reading barn plans and studying horse stable designs in magazines for months with hope that someday our fifty acres would evolve to be more like those affordable turnkey farms I wished we’d settled for. I decided that, if we were really going to build a barn now to keep Ronnie employed, I might as well campaign for a few practical elements that would make my life easier.

Together, Mark and I designed a traditional two-story barn, with two roomy 12X12 stalls and covered paddocks the size of another stall connected to each as roaming space for the animals. If I closed the stall doors, I could use the outside paddocks as two open air stalls, sort of a convertible system to house four animals comfortably when necessary. I even made the interior fence rails removable so I could open up the space to create a bigger paddock or to make the stall area one duplex if I wanted.

Opposite the paddocks we planned a covered area for hay storage and on either end of the hallway were double doors big enough to drive a tractor through. We ran electricity to the barn for when winter hours stole the light early and to install a pump to bring water from the creek. Hallelujah!

Opposite the stalls were a feed and tack room, both with concrete floors; a workbench, and dozens of hooks on which to hang supplies. The upstairs of the barn featured a traditional hay door, but this was more for looks than for resale. Getting the heavy bales up was more trouble than I could handle on my own, so this area became designated space for storing beekeeping supplies, fiber, cages, incubators, and anything else animal or garden related. The second floor provided a dry place to keep newly hatched chicks or peacocks too, my very own clubhouse, welcoming messy projects with open arms. I even had a small concrete pad with a roof overhead in front of the feed room as a tiny patio to shelter a small bistro table and a rocking bench.

Thanks to the high quality of the leftover wood from our house and the innovative design that was both functional and attractive, we created a superb barn. Best of all, the barn was all mine, so I immediately set out to make the structure
look
like mine.

I bought life-size black plywood cutouts of rearing horses and had them affixed to the front of the barn, framing a wagon wheel that served as a base for an outdoor light fixture. I put a bigger-than-life cutout of a soaring eagle on the back side, and hung iron hooks made of western stars and horse shoes, for ropes and such. I found a huge horseshoe welcome sign for the front door and a rusty equestrian-decorated bell for the porch, and hung baskets of flowers and a wreath on the feed room door. Wooden cutouts of horses, painted with the words “feed” and “tack,” labeled storage areas. I even had little street signs printed at the mall with the names of my horses to honor each of their stalls, and bought a stop sign that said “WHOA” instead of “STOP” to hang on the hitching post. Inspired, I picked up other gimmicky cowboy signs that I hung up with a bulletin board that proudly displayed a horse calendar.

To say my barn was cute would be an understatement.

“It’s a barn, dear. Not a kid’s theme bedroom. You’ve made a nice barn into something girly. Kinda embarrassing,” Mark complained.

“You think this barn is girly?” I glanced at my horse paraphernalia. “Well, maybe so. But hey, I’m a girl. This is my barn. Naturally, I would have a girly barn.”

“Don’t you think the rearing horse cutouts are over the top?” “You think I should have gotten the leaning cowboy cutout and put him up against the gate instead?”

“You’re missing the point.”

I leaned against my new horse dung shovel, complete with a cowboy hat engraved handle. “When we were planting daffodils, you told me the animal area was mine to make as pretty as I wanted.”

“I was talking landscaping.”

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet. In another month my mixed-color flower bulbs will be erupting everywhere, putting the
pièce de résistance
on this beautiful barn.”

He mumbled that other barns in the neighborhood were nothing more than barely-functioning buildings with slat walls and sections of roof missing.

“There is something endearing about an ancient building made of rough barn-wood, especially when covered in weeds and sporting cracks and bullet holes,” Mark explained.

“Had we bought a turnkey homestead with a rundown barn and used the saved time and money for taking a trip or two, we’d have that kind, but you wanted to build our Shangri-La yourself. This is the result,” I pointed out. “And for the record, most workshops around here are makeshift buildings too, and you instead built yourself two huge, decorative structures that could just as well be a second house.

He ignored that reality check. The next time we were out on a drive, he pointed to a weathered wreck of a barn that must have been fifty years old. “You have to admit a barn like this is quaint!”

“Whoever owns that place needs a plaque that says
‘Every cowgirl deserves a great stud’
. . . and a horseshoe clock,” I said with a sniff.

Since he now knew I was not about to remove my horseshoe coat rack in the interest of pretending my new barn was some kind of shabby-chic old wreck, Mark made clear to our country friends that he had nothing to do with what he now referred to as “my wife’s Martha Stewart barn.”

“Now, I’m not claiming to know everything, ‘cause I only have ‘bout a sixth grade education, but I think Ginny’s barn is just fine. I’d have a barn like that if I could afford it,” Ronnie said.

“See! Ronnie thinks my barn decorations are classy,” I said to Mark. “Just because you’re building a million dollar rustic log house doesn’t mean you know squat about barns.”

When my farrier came to shoe the horses, I took his visit as a perfect opportunity to get a second opinion.

“Nice barn, but where’s the couch gonna go?” Chris said with a grin.

“Are you making fun of my barn?”

“Are you kidding? It’s a great barn. Your barn is nicer than my house. I particularly like the horseshoe napkin holder on your bistro table.”

“Considering all the time I spend with these animals, I figured I might as well make the environment inviting.”

“I like the horse bell. The horseshoe sign is nice too. I’d like ‘em more, had you bought those things from me, considering I have thousands of used horseshoes without purpose. Now, if you could just do something about that awful noise coming from the tack room...”

It took me a moment to comprehend what noise he was referring to. My boom box radio got reception from only three stations: a country station, a Christian rock station and a classical music station. Under the circumstances, I chose the classical station. I rather liked Beethoven serenading me as I shoveled horseshit or polished a leather saddle.

“I’ve been shoeing horses all my life, and I can honestly say I ain’t never been to no barn with that kind of music playing. What’s wrong with good old country music?”

“I’ll stick to rhythm and blues or classical music,” I said. “Listen with an open mind and you might develop an appreciation for the finer things in life.”

“I’ll just hammer louder,” Chris mumbled.

“Some things can’t be drowned out, even with a blacksmith’s hammer,” I said,
“class
being one.”

Considering my boots were covered with horseshit and my nails were dirt encrusted, I got the response I deserved—good natured laughter.

Mark had been working relentlessly on his dream house for over a year now. Each day, I’d drive to the land to take care of my animals, and then I would drive a four-wheeler up to the house site to see how things were coming along. Mark would be there, covered from head to toe in sawdust as he debarked and sanded over eighty trees to be a part of the stairway, a support column, archway, or roof beam. Slowly the home took shape, growing grander in proportion and stature each day. Clearly my husband was no longer building a dream house for his family, but the dream house of his imagination, a stately, sophisticated lodge that rivaled anything you might see on
Extreme Log Homes,
his favorite reality TV show
.

“How big is this house going to be?” I said, awed by a 25-foot ceiling in the great room and the equally-high stone work around the fireplace, embedded with fossils and geodes.

“7,500 feet under roof,” Mark said, not taking his eyes off the beauty-band of river rock a workman was cementing along the circumference of the room. He barked an order at two workers hanging solid oak cabinets in the kitchen and rolled his eyes and whispered, “Can you believe these guys, hanging cabinets without considering the inset space for lighting requirements?”

Considering our last home in Florida was only 1,700 feet and the cabin we had been staying in was half that (and both were simple abodes), I didn’t know whether to panic or squeal with joy over the size and grandeur of his project. We had discussed simplifying our life and scaling down, but we also discussed a need for a home big enough for our family to enjoy before the last of our kids left for college. I suppose my dreaming about a family home with a big kitchen promoting family gatherings and space to play games or watch TV to promote togetherness sent a mixed message; nevertheless, I voiced my concern, thinking Mark had been confused about our agreed-upon life simplicity plan. This home was never a part of our joint vision. We talked of a simple log cabin home, and agreed we couldn’t spend more than four hundred grand on the project. To me, that investment was plenty for a pretty fantastic cabin.

“Can we afford this?” I whispered, unable to imagine us living in anything so spectacular. “This house has become awfully big.”

“You said you needed an office of your own. You wanted a good sized kitchen. When I told you we could finish off the basement and put in a workout room, you were thrilled. Most importantly, this house has big closets. I’ve manifested everything you asked for,” he snapped.

I had three horses, a donkey, two llamas, chickens, other birds, and angora rabbits outdoors, and a laptop precariously balanced on a makeshift desk in a corner of our simple, uninsulated, 30 year old cabin. I already had everything I wanted. Everything, that is, except a husband to share all my newfound freedom with. An impressive house was not something I ever wanted or cared about. What I wanted and cared about was the man building it.

I stared at the antler chandelier Mark chose after weeks of perusing rustic galleries. My eyes slipped to the thick log fireplace mantle he’d spent days making to his satisfaction, and moved on to the oversized Jacuzzi tub perfectly sized for a man of his large stature. I observed the massive stairway leading to Mark’s office, positioned in such a way that once he was up there, he could oversee the entire downstairs like a king gazing upon his kingdom.

One thing was obvious: this house was a not something a man seeking a stress-free life would build for his wife and children. Mark had built this house for himself, a place that embodied everything he considered impressive and fitting to his style and taste.

I wanted to be a devoted wife who supports her husband’s dreams, but the escalating investment left me sick with worry. There was no stopping the trajectory of the project now, so rather than continue to complain of his opulence, I decided to at least make evidently clear certain elements I felt were important, such as extra light in my office and in the kitchen pantry for my 45-year-old eyes. I reminded him over and over how badly I wanted a double oven and a good cooktop in the kitchen since I was an avid cook with plans to make canning, storing, and processing food a part of our organic lifestyle. So much of my life had always been devoted to the drudgery of doing the family laundry, and with mud and sawdust besieging our world now more than ever, I really did need a supersized washing machine. My fitness level declined every month, something that wreaked havoc on my self-image, so I pushed him to finish off the workout room, too, if he could do it inexpensively. A gorgeous house wasn’t half as important as a functional house to me and I pointed out plenty of huge houses we’d seen cost a fraction of what Mark was spending now, but he responded by pointing out how cheap they were with their stock cabinetry or prefab stonework. He could do so much better. His house design would be a work of art. I began thinking that if I let him build something grand, we’d at least have something to sell later that would fetch a good price.

But more than anything, I wished he would stop building all together. I wanted our
life
to be a work of art, while he wanted the building we hung our hats in to be his art.

He installed four fireplaces and stoned the back screened-in porch and the patio with expensive slate. He bought special order windows, awesome light fixtures, and an upscale generator so we’d never have to worry about blackouts. He spent a fortune on labor to get every detail perfect, preferring to supervise rather than do these tasks himself. Having overspent on fancy detail and materials, he had no choice but to cut corners in other places. Usually this meant forgoing the things
I
wanted most. He picked a stove smaller than the stove I formerly had in Florida and I was more than a little disappointed that hand hewn molding and fancy cabinetry took precedence over my desire for a down-to-earth welcoming kitchen made for cooking and gathering people together.

As the bills came rolling in, Mark would comment that the things I demanded, such as a few extra ceiling lights in my office, were the reason the house was costing far more than he anticipated. “I’m over budget because of everything you want me to do,” he said.

I reminded him one more time that I had taken him to a builder and we had spent a day designing a beautiful home with as much space and functionality as we wanted and the price was one third of what he’d spent so far. When he had refused to sign the contract, his reasoning was he could build us a better house for less money. What happened?

“This house is my art,” he said, as if that concept made the project worthy of every last cent of our family resources.

I tried to love his house, but the place was just so far removed from the quaint, comfy cabin we set out to buy or build, I couldn’t help but feel disassociated. I had dreamed of close quarters to inspire togetherness, a home like all those cabins we had rented over the years that left us dreaming that someday we might actually own one. I desperately longed for freedom from financial strain and the liberties that would come with not having to chase a buck to get by. I would write. He would make art out of wood. No more absentee husband distracted and agitated by building blunders. No more spending, spending, spending, to set up this perfect life that I was starting to doubt would ever come about. I had hoped for green living. This was putting us in the red.

Eventually, inevitably, the house was completed. The new life that we had set out to live over two years ago was finally set to begin. Overnight we went from living in the total dishevel of a refurbished, ramshackle cabin to living in the grand quarters of a multi-million dollar home (if you counted the outbuildings and land).

The first night, our family stood in the grand foyer of our home with mouths agape. A sound like a gunshot rang out, causing us all to freeze.

“That was a log cracking,” Mark explained.

With the heat turned on, the eighty logs he had harvested, sanded, and strategically placed were starting to dry and split. Our new home was talking to us, inviting us in like some uppity butler who seemed convinced we’d come to the wrong address.

“This will be like living in a bowl of Rice Krispies,” I said. “I guess you’re used to the sounds since you’ve spent so much time working here for over a year, but for us, just standing in such a fancy room feels weird.”

“I’m not used to it either. I feel like I’ve just checked in to a resort I really can’t afford,” Mark said, humbled by his own creation.

“My tummy feels funny,” said Neva, obviously nervous at the idea of setting her toys up in a room three times the size of her last one.

“Pepper likes the house,” Kent pointed out as our city-raised cat leaped from log to log and walked along the high ledges, turning the rafters into his own indoor, forest-inspired amusement park.

The lack of furniture made the house feel a bit like a mausoleum. Our voices echoed in the cavernous great room. We had rolled out a rug from our former house, but the ten foot oriental looked like a postage stamp. Our dining room table was dwarfed by the open space, as if the furniture had shrunken to the size of an end table. Clearly, more shopping would be required as the simple life continued its ravenous appetite for every resource we had. I was afraid to ask what heating and cooling a home this size would cost us, especially now that we no longer had an income or the promise of one, but I seriously doubted Mark had given common sense expenses like that a thought.

“What this place needs is new furniture,” Mark said.

“What this place needs is a Christmas tree,” I pointed out, wanting to make the children feel more at home and to get us all focused on tradition rather than more consuming by buying furniture. “It is December, after all.”

Everyone agreed a tree would be a good place to start. Mark didn’t join me in bed to christen our new home or make me feel in any way comfortable. I went to bed alone. He stayed up to go online to buy a 15-foot artificial tree to fill out the empty spot in the great room, and shop around for potential furniture.

“I got a huge tree on sale so we actually saved money,” he said after hours of online shopping.

I wondered how my husband, a true math whiz, continued to insist his spending money was a way of saving. He had spent over a million dollars so far, claiming all the while that he was “saving more money than anyone else could.”

The tree arrived a week later and the entire family devoted three days to putting together the one thousand independent branches in the kit, but the finished tree was fittingly majestic. Now, even our Christmas tree looked as over the top as the one at Rockefeller Center.

So began our first Christmas in the new house. We had a tree two times the size of any we’d ever had before, in a house four times the size of any we’d ever lived in before. Boxes were unpacked, and family knickknacks were placed in corners to give a homey touch to the place. As we established a normal schedule I started to wonder if perhaps this house wouldn’t come to fit us after all. Maybe I really did lack Mark’s vision and I was a stick in the mud, constantly raining on the parade rather than just enjoying the party.

As we were putting up the last touches of holiday decorations, Mark got “the call.” He looked at the number on the caller ID and took the phone up to his office, his muffled voice trailing down the balcony just loudly enough for me to deduce the severity of the conversation. When he came down he motioned for me to sit.

“The Smiths are going bankrupt,” he said. “They aren’t going to pay us the balance owed on the business. I’m calling our lawyer so we can begin the eviction process to get them out of our buildings. At least then we can sell the buildings and we’ll have all that money to pay for our new life.”

“Are we going to be able to keep this house?” I asked softly.

“We have a million dollar mortgage. Considering we are unemployed and have no prospects, and even if the Smiths did pay us everything, which they won’t, we couldn’t pay off the price of this house. I doubt it.”

We hadn’t been living in the house a month. The strain and sacrifice Mark had imposed on the family to get us here had been a nightmare. Now we were going to just move on before ever enjoying that ideal family time so long anticipated?

I could have been angry. But after 17 years of marriage, I knew my husband well enough that I should have assumed his house project would spin out of control before he even began. He made clear he wanted to show the world what he could do without me as a driving influence or as a factor in his success. He wanted to be a builder, and this house was his résumé. His need to feel important had always far outweighed the dull subject of his family’s financial stability.

My shame was that I didn’t stop him. I wanted him to have his dream, and I had been clinging to the hope that supporting him while he built his dream house would make him happy.

“This house has been so important to you. You must feel awful,” I said.

He shrugged and ran a hand along a thick log support. “Leaving dance left this huge hole inside me. I poured all my artistic inspiration into this project instead.” He gestured to the breathtaking room with a humble smile. “This house is the great recital of my building career. Performance art. But now that I’ve created something this cool, I’m done. I can let the place go.”

And just like that, my husband severed his attachment to the grand house that had been his obsession for two years. He did so with the same ease he had changed hobbies or eating styles in the past. He’d had the thrill of spending himself sick, and enjoyed reveling in the warm wood tones and harmony created by his perfect juxtaposition of rock and tree. Since indulging his creativity had been what the project was all about from the beginning, he couldn’t care about living here, and he certainly didn’t want to become a slave, working to support an expensive home now. He started talking about the next house he wanted to build.